


This is Beacon Hills

by Weesageechak



Series: Darkness in Beacon Hills [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alan Deaton is a spark, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Anything Goes is a thing, Anything Goes martial arts, Awkward Romance, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, BAMF Danny Mahealani, Bad Flirting, Bad Jokes, Bad Puns, Beacon Hills High School, Beacon Hills High is full of crazypeople, Beacon Hills has a werewolf minority, Beacon Hills is a town full of crazypeople, Best Friends, Braeden is Ukyo Kuonji, Corey is a windiigo/ wendigo, Creepy Gerard, Danny Mahealani is Nabiki Tendo, Declarations Of Love, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is powerful, Derek is a Good Alpha, Derek is not amused either, Eternal Sterek, Everybody Wants Stiles, Gerard Argent is Principal Kuno, Gerard Argent wears Hawaiian shirts, Harris is a wendigo, Harris is super creepy, Inspired by Ranma 1/2, Kate Argent is Kodachi Kuno, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Matchmaking, Mates, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Parody, Principal Gerard Argent, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Scott is a Good Friend, Slow Build BAMF Scott, Slow Build BAMF Stiles, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know About Werewolves, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know What Hit Him, Stiles Stilinski Has a Crush On Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski is Not Amused, Stiles is a Spark, Stiles is the new kid, True Alpha Scott McCall, What-If, crazy principal Gerard Argent, everyone wants to be alpha, everyone wants to steal Derek's powers, sparks are powerful, sparks are super rare, sterek, the supernatural is not generally known outside of Beacon Hills, there's ghouls & gnomes, there's only one alpha in Beacon Hills, windiigos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 02:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 177,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6593554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weesageechak/pseuds/Weesageechak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the new kid in town. He's not amused at the prospect of having to spend the rest of his high school years in the pit of utter boredom that is Beacon Hills, with its painfully suburban neighborhoods and mind-numbingly tedious citizens. However, Stiles can't shake off this peculiar feeling - like he's missing something, like the whole town is in on a conspiracy, even his dorky dad, and - what on earth is up with this dude called Derek Hale?</p>
<p>As the veil is gradually being pulled back on the deeply magical place that is Beacon Hills, Stiles suddenly finds himself in the middle of supernatural affairs in a town full of crazypeople and before he even knows what hit him, he's already in too deep. Beacon Hills has profoundly and irrevocably changed him, and Stiles - he wouldn't want it to be any different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Kid in Town

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingramses3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingramses3/gifts).



> edit November 11, 2017: Hey you guys!! are you all still with me? First of all, I'm SO so sorry that there hasn't been an update (yes, yes, I know.... I'm being the stereotypical fanfiction writer here, promising updates, but then there aren't any). I do have a good excude though (I think): my partner is very sick (cancer), so I've been feeling out of it for months - I just can't get into the mood I need to be in to write the happy ending I want for this fic; I'm just exhausted and stressed and afraid of what might happen. I'm also trying to finish my book (in real-life; it's a boring academic volume), so I pour all the energy I have for writing into this thing (because I really want to a job next year........... we'll see how that works out). Anyway, I just felt like letting you all know - I know I'm letting you down, but it's not because I lost interest. I think about this story a lot and I can't wait for the day I find myself with a week of nothing to do and feeling okay-ish - and I can dive right back into the wonderful Teen Wolf universe.  
> Until then, please forgive - and I am so happy that my story is still being read and cared about. You all are the reason I write.
> 
> \-----
> 
> I started writing this because a) I love the idea of a small nondescript town turning out to be completely and utterly crazy, full of magic and grotesque characters and b) I desperately needed to write something more cheerful to get me out of the dark pit that is Bleed Into Me :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is about to get groceries when he comes across a guy in a leather jacket seemingly beating a high school kid to death right there on the sidewalk in front of him, and in broad daylight no less. Needless to say, Stiles is startled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers Stiles's first two days in Beacon Hills during which he happens upon the town alpha, meets and befriends Scott, gets to know the school, finds out that werewolves exist, meets an odd elderly lady, gets creeped out by a strange windiigo kid and has to sit through the weirdest school lessons he could have ever imagined. This is just the beginning of a series of oddities that will determine Stiles' life from now on.

Have you ever been on a road trip and passed through a town that made you wonder who was living there and what job they were working and whether they would spend their whole lives here, even be buried here?

And that looked quiet and peaceful and so archetypically normal that something just felt _off_?

Beacon Hills is a town like that.

With its neat rows of family homes, slightly run-down downtown area that’s dangerous after dark, four baseball fields, three discotheques, two high schools, a bunch of shady bars, and an animal clinic. Its citizens are neither too bright, nor too dull, their cars are neither too fancy nor too shabby. It’s the embodiment of mediocrity.

And Stiles is the new kid.

He moved here today to live with his dorky dad.

His mom died when he was very young and since then he’d been living with his grandmother who was really old and the best person Stiles has ever known. But she had a stroke two weeks ago and even though it was a light one the doctors decided it would be better for her to move to a home and no way would she be able to care for her grandson. So there he is now, a sixteen-year-old kid from L.A., a little too pale and a little too awkward, doomed to spend the rest of his teenage years in this hellhole.

He is strolling down the street, grocery list in his right pocket, glaring at the SUVs parked on the side of the road, at the soccer moms and Beware-of-dog-signs and even though he’s never visited before – his dad had come to see them in L.A. every single time – he felt like he already knew every goddamn mailbox and every single fucking street lamp from here to the next grocery store. This street and the whole town around it was so fucking boring, it wasn’t even funny anymore.

Stiles Stilinski, newly citizen of Beacon Hills, surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of scenic woodland, in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Beacon Hills...

What kind of a name is that even supposed to b-

There is a deafening roar like a hurricane rolling in and Stiles stops short and jerks his head up from the ground to stare ahead at what is happening in front of him.

What the –

What the literal hell is going on here?

Stiles’ eyes are wide with shock and he is staring at the scene absolutely rooted in place, frozen, jaw dropping but he cannot comprehend what it is that he’s seeing.

There’s two guys in front of Stiles on the sidewalk and one is currently slamming the other into the brick wall on Stiles’ left and the wall cracks – fucking _cracks_ – and pieces of it are raining down onto the ground. The guy who is going feral is wearing a black leather jacket and is tall and buff and his hands are fisted into the other dude’s t-shirt whose face is bloody and he looks unconscious because, yeah, five seconds ago he was knocked into a _fucking brick wall_.

Stiles doesn’t know what to do.

He swallows and moves his fingers. His legs are still shaking from the shock of these two freaks appearing in front of him out of literal nowhere like they just peeled out of the asphalt.

He should do _something_ , he can’t just stand here and watch leather jacket beat up what looks like a high school kid – tall but sort of lean with blond curly hair. He could at least let them know that he’ll call the cops or – or something like that. Well, he could but then leather jacket who is currently punching the fuck out of curly hair’s face might notice him.

Holy hell, this maniac is going to kill the other dude right in front of Stiles’ eyes so he must, absolutely fucking _has to_ , do something.

But just when Stiles has made up his mind to yell _Hey!_ or _Hello?!_ – he isn’t quite sure yet – unconscious dude suddenly opens his eyes and his mouth and hisses at leather jacket.

And not just that – Stiles who is close enough to discern his facial features can see that his mouth is full of spikes all of a sudden but that can’t be true, he must be _imagining_ this, he shouldn’t have watched _Alien 3_ last night and, holy God, he must still be fast asleep in his bed in L.A. because yeah, curly has _fangs_ and his eyes are glowing – actually _glowing_ yellow and when he snarls Stiles is positive that his heart just stopped beating for two seconds.

This must be a practical joke.

Like a trick or some kind of stunt or something.

Sure, this town is nothing special, like 20.000 citizens maybe? But leather jacket could be a Youtuber or Viner or something? Some of these dudes do really crazy shit. You don’t have to be in a big city for that.

Meanwhile, curly hair has pushed himself off the wall as if it were fucking nothing, as if leather jacket – who must have nothing but muscles underneath that stupid pretentious jacket – didn't still have his fists around the fabric of his t-shirt.

And just as expected – there’s a tearing sound and leather jacket is clutching shreds, and curly hair, now with naked upper body and, oh my God, that guy isn’t lean at all, he’s fucking _ripped_ , and he leaps – _leaps_ – over the sidewalk and onto the black car that’s parked in the curb and Stiles can’t even right now.

That must have been at least six feet.

Curly hair is squatting on the roof of the car like Spiderman and his face looks really strange now, distorted, eyes still glowing, canines protruding over his lips, and then leather jacket reacts and despite everything Stiles has seen so far he could not have seen _this_ coming.

No fucking way.

So, leather jacket, okay?

He _ducks_ down, _opens_ his mouth and lets out a low, reverberating growl and it’s the single most inhuman sound Stiles has ever heard, and he’s watched _a lot of_ horror movies. Then his _face_ is changing in front of Stiles’ eyes, features distort, hair is growing in places where there abso-fucking-lutely shouldn’t be any hair, and canines drop out of this mouth looking longer and more deadly than those of curly hair and his eyes start glowing fucking red.

Stiles wants to raise his hands to rub his eyes but he can’t move.

This can’t be happening right now.

He’s sweating and shaking and staring at the two guys but he still sees what he sees, nothing changes, no matter how often he blinks.

Except _now_ of course curly hair, yes? He takes a _jump_ at leather jacket, claws – _claw_ s?! – raised high in the air, and leather jacket doesn’t even _blink_ , he just _slams_ curly hair single-handedly into the sidewalk.

Stiles can’t help it, he lets out a very unmanly squeal and stumbles a few steps backwards, almost lands on his ass, and the two dudes freeze in place, leather jacket who’s squatting over curly hair with his right hand on his bare chest and curly hair who’s on his back, arms and legs sprawled out like he’s afloat in a pool, except he isn’t, from the looks of it he’s in a goddamn fight to the death, oh my God.

And now they know Stiles is here, too.

Leather jacket lifts his red glowing monster eyes up from the ground and looks Stiles dead in the eyes and Stiles feels like he’s going to faint.

_‘This can’t be happening, this isn’t real, this can’t be happening, what the fuck is happening?!’_

What happens then is the most bizarre thing yet and that’s saying a lot.

Leather jacket’s monster features melt back into his face like a fucking freak show in reverse, like there’s a little dude sitting in his head who’s just reeling the monster back in, going ‘ _Oops, sorry, you shouldn’t have seen this, my bad,’_ his eyes stop glowing and he jumps to his feet, eyes never leaving Stiles’.

Meanwhile, curly hair picks himself up from the ground, cranes his neck in Stiles’ direction, jumps to his feet - to his _hands_ and feet, he's really on all fours - and then swiftly takes off, galloping across the road, and Stiles is pretty sure he sees him leap over a fence out of the corner of his eyes.

Leather jacket opens his mouth and Stiles wants to fucking run but he’s still too shocked to move.

He can't process this, any of this, and now everything becomes even more confusing because a raspy and very upset sounding voice is saying, “Derek Hale, how often do I have to tell you to leave my wall alone? Mother Mary in heaven, just look at it!”

An elderly lady has come shuffling across the lawn to Stiles’ right, the one that is separated from the sidewalk by the low brick wall. Pieces of it are disseminated over the asphalt in front of it in a four-feet-radius, red clay dusting leather jacket’s leather shoes. Stiles’ jaw drops even lower when leather jacket turns to her and raises his right arm but instead of striking the old lady, which - that wouldn't have been too far off, right, considering?

But no, nothing of the sort.

Instead, he runs it through his hair like he’s embarrassed all of a sudden.

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Allen, I’ll send someone to fix it.”

The old lady is waving her finger in his face, a bun of grey hair bobbing up and down on the back of her head while she’s nodding angrily.

“You better! This is the fourth time in two months and I can’t have construction workers bustle about this place for another week, slow as Johnny’s men always are. I have to have my peace and quiet in this goddamn loony bin. It’s why I put the wall up in the first place.”

“Good thinking,” leather jacket mutters under his breath and the old lady flicks her eyes up from the ground and gives him a piercing look like she wants to melt his skin clear off his bones.

“You watch your mouth, Derek Hale. Just because you’re the _alpha_ in this town doesn’t mean a spark like me can’t take you on with a single flick of my fingers.”

A what, _what_?

Stiles is working his jaw, mouthing ' _alpha_ ' and ' _spark_ ', but his mind is a total blank.

He hasn't even heard any of these words before.

Not in a way that would make sense in this situation anyway.

Leather jacket whose name seems to be Derek, just nods, averting his eyes and Mrs. Allen turns around and hobbles up the short path to her house, throwing a hostile glance at Stiles before slamming her door shut behind her.

Derek now looks over to Stiles who still can’t fucking believe this, _any_ of this, and says, “Sorry I startled you,” totally matter-of-factly as if he were apologizing for being 5 minutes late for work.

_Startled_?!, Stiles is screaming in his head. _More like, I almost peed my pants, sweet Jesus!_

“You’re new here.”

Not a question.

Stiles nods his head up and down, still can’t find it in him to speak.

Derek scrutinizes him for a few moments and then says, “I’m Derek Hale.”

Yeah.

Yeah, Stiles got that.

“S-Stiles. Stilinski. Call me – Stiles.”

Derek’s eyes widen with surprise and recognition.

Then he nods.

“Right. You’re the sheriff’s kid. He said his son would come and live with him. I didn’t know it would be so soon.”

“Y-yeah,” Stiles says and his voice is still way too shaky and he blushes – which doesn’t matter at all since his whole face is probably still bright red from having been almost scared to death earlier. Derek who looks kind of cool must think he’s a total douche.

But yeah, it doesn't matter really, because all things considered, Stiles is not entirely sure whether he isn’t dreaming.

The whole monster thing?

Seriously.

A killer effect, like, totally badass, but - no real, certainly.

It just - whatever just happend the images raging around in Stiles' brain right now, of sprouting hair and glowing eyes and fangs and claws, can't have anything to do with it. Completely and totally imaginary, all of it.

Plus, now that he can see this guy’s face properly Stiles is almost positive that he’s too good-looking to be real. This Derek guy’s face looks like it was chiseled out of a block of marble by Michelangelo, for God’s sake.

Stiles swallows and quickly flicks his eyes at Derek’s broad shoulders, his leather jacket that is spotless despite the way he beat curly hair’s face into an almost unrecognizable mush. Stiles thinks that underneath his clothes, Derek’s body probably fits his face.

So all things considered, yeah. No way, José.

This isn’t real.

This is just a very, _very_ vivid dream.

Derek is still looking at him, hands in his pockets and a nonchalant look on his face like he’s perfectly comfortable with long drawn silences.

Which totally goes with the rest of his smug exterior.

“I – I should. Go,” Stiles finally manages to get out and turns an even brighter shade of red. Even if this is a dream, he can be mortified by his own douchebaggery, ok?

Also, Derek really freaks him out.

So when Derek nods and says, “Alright. I see you around,” perfectly civil and polite, Stiles turns around and starts moving in the opposite direction and away from Derek who’s still standing there and watching him like he has literally nowhere to be and nothing else to do.

There’s not a single thought in Stiles’ brain this entire way back. A complete and total blank but his hands are still shaking.

Thank God, his legs haven’t forgotten how to walk. He wasn’t too certain about that anymore for a second there.

 

 

 

When Stiles slams the front door closed behind him he is greeted by his dad’s voice that’s coming from somewhere in the house. Upstairs probably.

“Stiles, do you want your bed by the window or next to your desk?”

Instead of answering, Stiles walks over to the sofa and flops down thinking that, maybe, he’s really been here all the time. Maybe he’s dreaming right now. Maybe his meemaw didn’t have a stroke and when he wakes up he’s back in his old room in L.A., waking up from an afternoon nap, one of these nasty ones when you just fall asleep for an hour and have really vivid nightmare.

Which would be so crazy.

Stiles has always wondered how people in movies could confuse being asleep and being awake because the two feel nothing alike.

Now, he isn’t so sure anymore.

“Stiles?” his father says, coming down the stairs.

“Mmh,” Stiles answers from the sofa and his father frowns.

“Are you alright? Did you put the milk in the fridge?”

There’s a pause, a long and heavy sigh and then Stiles pushes himself up from the sofa, puts his feet down on the yellowish rug.

“I didn’t get any...”

“You,” his father blinks, “didn’t – get any?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“So, you’re saying you... wait – you’re not a vegan, are you? Or... ha, did you get lost? It’s really right down the street. Come on, we’ll take the car and I show you. It’s the same way you’re gonna be taking to school tomorrow.

“Dad?”

Sheriff Stilinski who has already fished the car keys out of the bowl by the door turns to look at him, going “Mh?”

“Dad, the reason I didn’t – I didn’t... there was something – _strange_...”

“O-oh, strange? So,” his dad clears his throat and says, “what seems to have been the matter, son?” a little too quickly.

Stiles turns to meet his eyes in surprise - this is not the reaction he expected and is that - does the man look _guilty_ somehow?

But his dad keeps his gaze averted, staring down into the key bowl that contains all the keys to the house, and garage, and garden shed and, inexplicably, about two dozen small rubber fish that fill the bowl almost to its entirety which is why Stiles had to literally dig for the spare set of keys earlier.

Not keyring pendants, either.

Just little green fish made out of rubber with blue specks and yellow and orange stripes.

“Yeah, strange. Like _I’m-not-sure-whether-I’m-dreaming-strange_. Peculiar. Befuddling.”

“So what – what happened?”

Pointedly _not_ looking Stiles in the eyes.

Seriouly, how did this dude ever manage to get anyone to vote for him anyway?

Stiles’ dad has picked up one of the rubber thingies and is sniffing it.

“So I’m just walking and minding my own business and, all of a sudden, right? These two dudes come _darting_ , like, _shooting_ out from between two parked cars and before I know it they're  _crashing_ into a brick wall,” flailing his arms and imitating the movement like a lightning, “like, _directly_ in front of me and I – I swear I almost wet myself.”

“A brick wall?” the sheriff says, looking up, “not – not Mrs. Allen’s brick wall?”

Stiles nods.

“The very one. But the thing is-”

“Oh no,” his dad rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, lets them linger on a cobweb for a few seconds, “she’ll come in tomorrow morning to file a complaint and I’m gonna have to call Talia Hale again and – that woman just gives me the creeps...”

Stiles furrows his brow.

He swears to God, he doesn’t even know where to start.

“How did you know one of the two freaks was this Derek-guy?”

His father stares at him, mouth hanging open and cheeks slightly red.

“What? Didn’t you say that?”

“No? I most certainly didn’t?”

“O-oh then. I just figured. You know because... what were they doing did you say?”

“Fighting? Like, to the death, from the looks of it?”

“Yeah, that’s just Derek, you know. That guy’s trouble. Just – keep away from him.”

“That’s what I thought at first but then he seemed kind of nice,” Stiles says.

“Oh yeah, he’s a good guy,” his dad says, picking up a rubber fish and closing his fist around it, giving it a good squeeze so its eyes well out between his fingers.

“Didn’t you say he was trouble?”

“Mh?” his dad says, “yeah, he definitely is. Steer clear of all things Derek, okay? Okay. I’m gonna go outside and – water – the – gravel-”

He opens the door and all but darts out, right hand still kneading that ridiculous fish and leaving his son behind in the living room, open-mouthed and blinking wildly like he just realized he slipped out of reality a few hours ago.

Insane.

This was completely and utterly insane.

Derek Hale, curly hair, Mrs. Allen, even his dad?

Fucking nuts, all of them.

 

 

When Stiles is standing at the bottom of a classroom in front of the blackboard, thirty pairs of eyes staring back at him, the feeling of being oddly out of place still hasn’t completely vanished. Right now, who Derek Hale is and why Stiles’ own father has been dodging all of Stiles’ questions so far, is not as urgent as the question of whether he’ll be the odd and douchy kid again.

Because Stiles isn’t just the new kid in town.

He’s also the new kid at Beacon Hills High, junior year, and he has just been introduced by the Econ teacher who strangely calls himself _Coach_ Finstock.

Introduced is also more of a euphemism.

Coach Finstock had barked _“Bilinski?!”_ as soon as Stiles’ right sneaker had touched down on the floor of his classroom and when Stiles had nodded shyly he’d dragged – literally dragged – Stiles into the room by his t-shirt which had excited a few malicious snickers from the boys and girls already seated.

And, fucking great, Stiles just loves spending the rest of the year going, “No, my name is really _Stilinski_ , with a ‘st.’ Like stab.’”

“Over there! Sit!” Finstock says now like he’s scolding Stiles for peeing on his most expensive rug. Finstock never seems to form entire sentences either, and Stiles wonders how on earth he’s going to be teaching a class like that.

But he’ll see, right?

It’s not like he’ll be going anywhere else anytime soon.

Stiles walks over to an empty seat by the window and drops his bag on the floor below the desk. The guy next to him is wearing a worn grey sweater, has brown curly hair and meets Stiles’ anxious gaze with a wide, friendly smile on his face, and Stiles –

Stiles instantly decides to like him.

At least one face that isn't eyeballing him like Stiles is some kind of parasite daring to set foot into the hallowed halls of Beacon Hills High.

Shabby classrooms that are way too small, walls painted in odd colors that don't match, and supply closets that smell strange, like someone vomited in here in 1978 and it got never really completely cleaned up.

So, this seems like a perfectly regular high school and Beacon Hills your standard small and boring town but Stiles still can’t fully convince himself that none of it had been real – that he’d just _dreamed_ this dude called Derek Hale transform into a monster in front of his very eyes.

That he’d just _imagined_ his dad’s evasive behavior, the way he’s managed to wriggle out of every single fucking question Stiles asked him about it like a goddamn eel.

In fact, Stiles hasn’t gotten much sleep in his strange, new bedroom that still reeks of fresh paint and cheap furniture, so he’s had ample time to think about the whole thing and come up with an explanation. Or five, to be precise.

He's scribbling them down into his notebook right now because all Coach Finstock is doing is curse and suspect a guy called Greenberg of eating _all_ fifteen pieces of chalk, he _counted_ them himself, just to spite him.

\-----------

_One – Derek Hale is the creator of a radically new kind of prosthetics for horror movies, or is testing them for someone else._

This is the most reassuring and down-to-earth explanation Stiles could come up with.

_Two – it’s his dad’s douchy way to say ‘welcome to Beacon Hills!’ and while Stiles would certainly have to take his hat off to an elaborate prank like this, he’s also going to have to murder the old man for almost scaring him to death, Sheriff or no sheriff._

_Three – Beacon Hills is located in some sort of warp in the timespace continuum and Stiles has slipped into a parallel dimension where people can just let their faces distort grotesquely and slam other monster-dudes into brick walls with superhuman force._

_Four – the most daunting explanation and, sadly, the most logical one: he is schizophrenic and he’s starting to have visual hallucinations and first bouts of paranoia._

_Five – The Truman Show is real._

\-----------

Stiles is staring down at his writing and thinks, _One. Definitely one._

It just _has_ to be one.

And maybe he'll come up with other exlanations in the course of the day. It's not like classes are going to occupy his mind so much. Stiles usually has ample capacity to day dream, even during exams, so. Yeah, he'll be certainly wracking his brain for the next couple hours. Not the worst way to spend the first day at your new school, right?

He's had worse - like, head-in-the-toilet-worse.

 

 

As soon as first period is over – Stiles is still blinking in surprise at what must have been the angriest Econ lesson he’s ever had to sit through – the boy next to Stiles turns to him and says, “I’m Scott McCall. Nice to meet you.”

He extends his hand and beams at him like Stiles is a relly big strawberry pie.

_Seems like a nice dude - and also, somewhat odd and awkward,_ Stiles thinks.

Like himself.

Perfect.

He takes Scott’s hand and smiles gratefully back at him. For some unfathomable reason, Scott seems genuinely happy that Stiles is here and that feels nice for a change. So much better than the vaguely disinterested glances everyone else is throwing him – or the _Hey asshole!s_ and _Pevert!s_ he’d gotten in his old school.

Back in L.A., he’d been the dorky and awkward kid and while there’s always a bunch of those, he’d been the only one who’d been caught making out with another dude, Jay Kensington (hurtful nickname, _Gayjay_ ), behind the school two weeks after everyone had seen him sucking face with a completely wasted Maggie Sonderburg at a party, the senior who had a reputation for being easy and into younger guys. Suddenly, Stiles had been the weird kid, the one who’s neither gay nor really hetero but slips through all fixed categories, who won’t be pigeonholed, and yeah.

They didn’t know what to make of Stiles and people hate that. It messes with their carefully arranged categories in their neatly-stored everythings.

So when Scott says, “You’re new here, mh? I bet you’re, like, overwhelmed right now,” Stiles nods and decides then and there that he won’t spoil it for himself, this time. Leaving his grandma had been hard but leaving his old school not so much. He hadn’t had any friends anyway and he could do without the constant bullying and being shoved around. Stiles would just try and play it cool.

Be a regular teenager in this regular town.

Plus, Scott doesn’t strike him as one of the popular kids with his ratty sweater and messy hair so maybe he wouldn’t catch on to the fact that Stiles really wasn’t cool at all so fast and hate him for it.

Or maybe, just maybe, Scott can already tell from the way Stiles’ hair is cropped way too short which, as Stiles has told his grandma probably a thousand times now, gives his head this _odd_ shape, but she always _insisted_ on the haircut.

And the way he fidgets around in his seat, too, and jerks his head when he’s addressed like a spaz, not like James Dean or something.

So maybe Scott can tell but doesn’t care about it.

Stiles knows that there is always a reason for an empty seat in a classroom, why no one wants to sit there, you know, and thinking about it now makes him relax a little. Maybe Scott doesn’t have any friends either and Stiles isn’t surprised when Scott says, “Come on, Math is next. You can sit next to me there as well, if you want to. I sort of – usually sit by myself.”

Stiles smiles, nods, says “Yeah. Cool.” and feels like they’ll understand each other just fine.

And then Scott goes ahead and ruins it by saying, “And don’t worry, I won’t – _bite_. At least,” and he’s grinning from ear to ear and actually fucking _winks_ at Stiles, “not unless you mess with my Pokémon collection.”

Stiles sighs and leans back in his seat.

Case clear, Scott’s a complete and total dork but then, so is Stiles, so that’s fine (and he may or may not have a part of his Pokémon collection arranged neatly on top of the dresser in his new bedroom right now).

But there’s just something about the way Scott is still grinning silently at his history book ten minutes later that makes Stiles – feel _odd_ again. The way he emphasized ‘bite’ with this gleam in his eyes. Stiles keeps throwing Scott confused glances but Scott doesn’t seem to notice and that makes it even – _weirder_.

Like the whole freaking town is in on a conspiracy.

 

 

Stiles is listlessly chewing on what must be the worst sandwich he’s ever had – it’s just two slices of stale toast with a piece of lettuce stuffed in-between (and that’s not even talking about the rubber squid his dad had slid into the paper bag next to an apple and a banana) – and wondering about the teachers at this school. As a matter of fact, Coach Finstock is not the strangest one of them, not by far, and that is sort of – unsettling.

Their English teacher Jane Hinako is 4 feet 2 and looks like she’s ten years old (she had pink and purple bunnies in her hair and a horse on her sweater, for God’s sake).

The Music teacher, Mrs. Rodriguez, didn’t really talk but sort of chirped and the sound of her voice started giving Stiles a serious headache fifteen minutes into the period.

Then he’d caught a glimpse of the principal in the hallway, an old dude with a head full of silver grey hair, but who was also wearing a Hawaiian shirt, bright red and with a yellow pineapple pattern, as well as brown shorts reaching only down to the middle of his hairy thighs, and flip-flops – yeah, it’s warm here, it always is, it’s California, but they’re not at the freaking beach – and when he asked Scott why Mr. Lindon, the Math teacher, had jingled with every step Scott had just shrugged and said, “Tambourine, obviously,” like that explained everything.

“So... I bet it was really hard to leave your grandma behind,” Scott is saying now around the big bites he’s taking from an over-sized pretzel, and Stiles puts down the miserable excuse for a sandwich, swallows hard and nods.

“Yeah, I get it...,” Scott looks sad for a second. “My father left when I was twelve and I still miss him sometimes.”

Dude, _tmi_ considering that they’ve only known each other since Econ but then again, Scott doesn’t seem to care about boundaries. Like, seriously never because his next question is, “Did you have a girlfriend in L.A.? I bet all the girls in L.A. are fashionable and cool...”

Stiles frowns.

“Not really... besides, I didn’t live in like... the cool side of L.A. More like... Pasadena.”

Scott nods with wide eyes as if Stiles had just told him that he’d spent a year hunting crocodiles in Australia or something.

“Most people here don’t, like... leave,” he’s saying now, slowly, furrowing his brow as if he’s trying to think of a reason. “I don’t really know why, I guess they just like it here, is all...”

Stiles nods as if he understands which he really doesn’t and then something outside the window catches his attention.

They’re in the Chemistry classroom which is on the second floor and overlooks the parking lot so from where Scott and he are standing right now by the window, he has a good view at the occasional car pulling in or out. And it just so happens that a super fancy sports car just slid into the parking lot, stops, and a moment later two people get out, and what are the odds that Stiles would actually _know_ one of them. Slamming the driver’s door closed and shoving a pair of sunglasses into his face is none other than leather jacket.

Derek Hale.

The dude from the day before, the very one who’d been beating the shit out of a guy and looking like he stepped out of a freaking horror movie one moment, and then had politely asked Stiles about his father the next.

“Scott, do you know this guy?” Stiles nods over to the window and Scott turns to flick his eyes over to the sports car.

“Yeah, of course, dude, that’s Derek Hale,” and he says it like, _Yeah, of course, dude, that’s George Clooney_.

“Of course?”

Stiles furrows his brow and the feeling that he’s missing something here grows even stronger.

Like he’s somehow not seeing the big picture.

And then he recognizes the other guy, the one who just got out of the passenger seat and is clutching a backpack to his chest and glancing awkwardly past Derek at the school.

But – that can’t be...

No freaking way.

It’s _curly hair_.

No doubt about that, Stiles is absolutely, 110% certain.

It’s the same guy Derek almost beat into a bloody pulp the day before, the guy who’d vanished tail between his legs as soon as Derek had stopped punching him. His hair is tousled like he just got up, his skin is somehow, weirdly, inexplicably, unbruised, at least from what Stiles can see at this distance.

Not like someone had smacked him repeatedly but like, you know. No one had smacked him repeatedly. Like he’s just another, regular and slightly awkward teenager.

What the literal hell...

“A-and who,” Stiles has to clear his throat to get the words out. He feels like a part of the stupid sandwich is still stuck somewhere in-between his mouth and his stomach.

“Who is the other one?”

“That’s Isaac. Isaac Lahey. He’s a junior, too. Dude's a mess. He's late, like, almost everyday, so Derek's driving him to school a lot.”

“But – Scott, yesterday, I – I met Derek before, er, that was yesterday when I was supposed to get groceries for my dad and, I sweat to God, he beat _the literal shit_ out of this guy. Out of – Isaac.”

Stiles doesn’t dare mention the way both Isaac and Derek had dropped canines out of their mouths and let their eyes glow in different colors. Red, Derek, and Isaac yellow. Maybe he’d really been hallucinating.

To his utter surprise, Scott just shrugs, nods and says, “Yeah, you know, he’s in his pack, so Derek would teach him, like, a lot.”

Stiles flicks his eyes from Derek back to Scott, unsure of how he’s supposed to react to that. Maybe Scott is making fun of him.

“In... what?”

“There’s only two people in Derek’s pack, Isaac and Erica. Erica’s a senior. It’s, you know, really exclusive. How big is the Los Angeles pack?”

Stiles blinks.

He feels like Scott and he are having two entirely different conversations.

“W-what?”

Then Scott smacks his own forehead all of a sudden which causes Stiles to jump.

“Ah, shoot, sorry, I’m not making any sense here, right?”

Stiles nods, relieved.

No sense, nope, just sounding like a lunatic but okay.

Scott would surely explain it all to him now.

The joke or whatever.

“You don’t even have an alpha in Los Angeles, right? So you wouldn’t know how big a pack usually is.”

Okay, that makes even less sense.

What on earth is Scott talking about?

And that’s the _second time_ someone has called Derek an ‘alpha.’ Maybe Derek is some kind of politician? Presidential candidates have a superpack, so maybe a local politician has just a regular pack? But that doesn’t even begin to explain the fangs and the claws and the glowing eyes – or does it? After all, political campaigns also always involve a lot of showmanship.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something but then Scott sighs, shakes his head, rolls his eyes and says, “Aaaaand here we go.”

“Here we go?” Stiles manages to get out before his jaw drops and he’s staring out the window, completely mesmerized, because down in the parking lot, all hell is breaking loose.

It starts with what sounds like a hundred people stomping and pushing chairs and tables around in the classrooms over their heads and below their feet, and on their left and right. One of the guys in the classroom who’d just been sitting there peeling a banana peacefully a minute earlier even stormed out the door, leaving the half-eaten thing behind on his desk.

Then students start crowding in the parking lot, and not just students.

Stiles recognizes their dainty looking English teacher boxed in-between, from the looks of it, broad-shouldered seniors. Some of them have apparently grabbed brooms on their way out, and a few are even yielding baseball bats and what looks like lacrosse sticks.

Right, Beacon Hills has a lacrosse team which Stiles was really excited about because he’d been playing in a team for two years now back in L.A., but that does _not_ explain why students would be waving their sticks at Derek Hale right now, not even a little bit.

“What the-”

But before Stiles can get any kind of explanation out of Scott who isn’t even watching anymore but is leaning back in his chair with a comic book, the crowd attacks.

Literally, attacks.

As in, this is war.

They are all running at Derek, at least fifty people like one giant tornado, fists and bats, and sticks raised, hollering and shouting, and Stiles thinks he can discern sentences like _“Down, Derek!”_ and _“I’ll get you today, Hale!”_ and _“Say your prayers, alpha!”_  even through the closed windows.

Stiles can’t believe this is fucking happening and that’s twice within 24 hours.

What the literal hell is up with this town?

“Oh - _God_ , we need to call someone – call my - my dad, they’re going to kill him! They’re going to rip this dude to shreds!”

Stiles is already fumbling his cellphone out of his pocket but Scott yawns demonstratively and flicks over a page in his comic book, an exceptionally bored expression on his face and says, “Naaah... I really doubt that, Stiles...”

Stiles cannot fucking believe Scott.

“How the hell can you say that, there’s huge dudes with baseball bats down there, for God’s sake! And how can you even sit there all calm and relaxed like that when-”

Scott puts the magazine down in his lap and looks at Stiles, an earnest expression on his face now. “Nothing’s going to happen, they’re not even going to put a dent into Derek’s car. Derek is really particular about his car...”

When Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Scott says, “Just look out the window, Stiles,” and Stiles does.

Whatever thing he'd meant to shoot Scott's way, like ' _See, I told you_ ' and ' _God, I think he's dead, it's too  late!_ ' - when he moves his jaw nothing comes out but a sound of complete and utter surprise.

He has to rub his eyes to be sure he’s not imagining things because down in the parking lot, the students are already piling up around Derek’s feet, apparently unconscious, limbs twisted in very unhealthy looking angles, shirts and pants torn and bloody. Derek’s eyes are glowing red and he’s throwing boys and girls around like they’re stuffed animals, baring his fangs and roaring every time he throws a punch.

And Derek isn’t the only one.

Each and every pair of eyes in the crowd that’s gradually growing smaller and smaller is glowing, most of them a shade like orange, gold or yellow. The English teacher looks especially creepy with her tiny claws and luminescent blue eyes and what the – just, what the...

At the side of the parking lot, the guy called Isaac is leaning against a tree, watching, his expression almost as bored as Scott’s who has taken up his comic book again.

“Great, now I don’t know where I was anymore...”

Usually Stiles would say something like, _It’s a twenty-page comic book, how hard can it be_ , but right now he feels like he’s going to freak out. Like he’s gone crazy – or wait, no. Like he’s the only sane person here and – didn’t Mrs. Allen call this town a ‘loony bin’ the day before? Stiles is starting to see her point.

“What the fuck are they doing? What is Derek doing? Why are they attacking him?”

“Ah, here,” Scott says and scans the page he just opened. And, to Stiles, “They’re trying to take away Derek’s alpha power. You know, you have to defeat an alpha to take his or her power and being the alpha of Beacon Hills is kind of a big deal.”

And, throwing Stiles a look over the pages of his comic book, “So whenever Derek as much as shows his face anywhere all the betas sniff their chance, but it’s completely futile, if you ask me.”

Stiles has no idea what an alpha is supposed to be, but he can clearly see that trying to defeat Derek Hale is a pointless undertaking, clear as day, about as promising as asking a brick wall to prom. Ms. Hinako, the English teacher, is literally the only one standing at this point and Derek just picks her up like a log of wood and throws her across the parking lot and she lands on a heaving pile of bodies that are strewn around Derek, groaning and squirming, in what must be at least a thirty feet radius.

“That’s why people don’t really talk to me... because I’ve never taken a shot at trying to become the alpha,” Scott is muttering now. “These douchebags end up with twisted limbs and a busted nose almost every single fucking day, and _I’m_ the crazy one here, yeah right. It’s just so stupid. I don’t get why they can’t accept that Derek’s the alpha and live with it. It’s ridiculous.”

“Wise decision, Scott McCall,” a girl is saying now. She has stepped up to the window and joined Stiles in watching Derek leap at one of the students who is currently trying to get back up.

Stiles throws her a side glance.

He doesn’t have to know anything about Beacon Hills High to know that she’s the boss around here. The one who is sexy but also kind of cute, who is wearing expensive brands and has hair that looks like it was done up professionally. Who tells you that she is somebody and you are nobody, just from the way her eyes are looking into yours. If at all.

The one every guy wants to date and every girl wants to be.

The most popular girl in school.

She’s rather short and very pretty, with full lips painted pink, and a tight dark blue dress that barely reaches down to her thighs. Her strawberry blonde hair is silky and long and put into neat curls. All in all, she looks like she’s prepared to step out into paparazzi flashlight any second.

She flicks her eyes down at her IPhone and sighs, a dreamy look on her face.

“Less than five minutes. This must be a new record. Derek is just invincible. And... isn’t he handsome?”

“You mean – this has happened before?”

Stiles stares at her. The girl throws her head back and lets out a melodic laugh.

“Well, whenever Derek comes to school to drop his pack off or pick them up at least. So yes, most days... That reminds me – has anyone seen Erica Reyes today? She still owes me ten dollars. Where is everybody anyway?”

“All out there probably, watching,” Scott mutters.

“But _what is he_?” Stiles says now, eyes still wide with shock as Derek’s monster mask melts back into a handsome human face with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Derek is panting and wiping off blood from his face, nose scrunched up in disgust. Stiles realizes that he must have gotten rid of his leather jacket somewhere in-between knocking people unconscious, probably to avoid having it ruined.

The girl has turned to face Stiles.

She is scrutinizing his face, a knowing smile playing around her lips.

“Right, you’re the new kid. What was your name again?”

“Stiles,” Stiles says and extends his hand.

“Lydia Martin,” the girl says, flicking her eyes down to Stiles’ hand but not taking it. Stiles pulls back after a moment, cheeks reddening.

“Mh,” Lydia says. She tilts her head to the right as if that’s giving her a better look at Stiles’ face. “You’re kind of cute, I guess.”

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it again. For some mysterious reasons no one in this goddamn city seems to want to answer any of his questions concerning the big fat elephant in the room.

“What’s up with these people anyway? What’s an – an alpha?” he tries again.

There’s a rustle when Scott jerks his comic book down so fast that Stiles jumps a little. Well, he’s really tense right now, considering – considering the big pile of bodies down in the parking lot and the handsome dude who’s still standing, looking like a young Marlon Brando, running his hand through his hair and putting his sunglasses back on.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“N-no?”

Lydia Martin is just standing there, arms akimbo.

Smirking like she knows exactly what Stiles’ problem is, but is far too entertained right now to be coming to his rescue.

“But – your dad’s the sheriff, didn’t you ever wonder why he carries around all these weapons?” Scott is saying and he gives Stiles an incredulous look.

“What weapons?” Stiles says meekly, feeling more and more stupid.

“Like, super strong tasers and stuff. Wolfsbane guns. It’s really the only thing you can do to break up a werewolf fight, taser them long and good.”

There’s a snicker from Lydia and Stiles knows exactly why. He must look incredibly douchy, the way his mouth is hanging open and his eyes are wide and there’s this blank expression on his face. But he just can’t help it.

He’s like 60% sure that Scott just said _werewolf_.

“And,” Stiles clears his throat. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately. “A-and... w-werewolf? So, that’s what Derek is – a werewolf? You’re bullshitting me.”

Somehow, however, Stiles gets the strong feeling that Scott really isn’t.

That he’s, in fact, dead serious.

Scott furrows his brow.

“What – do you want to tell me you’ve, like, never met a werewolf?”

Stiles can’t even shake his head at that.

He just can’t.

Physically impossible.

This is nuts, all of this.

But, wait! Maybe...

Okay, how about this.

_Maybe_ ‘The Werewolves’ are some kind of super popular rock band in Beacon Hills. Or an orchestra or something, if Scott seems to think that Stiles surely must have met one of them before.

Or...

“...is that the, er... Beacon Hills High lacrosse team? The... werewolves? Like.... Go, werewolves! Bear down, wolves?”

Scott stares at him for a second, and then he throws his head back into his neck and lets out a loud and roaring laugh, more like a bark, really, and Lydia Martin chuckles.

“Scott, stop tormenting him. He really doesn’t know,” she finally says.

“Werewolves,” Scott says. “Like _this_.”

His eyes find Stiles’ and all of a sudden, they are glowing like someone just turned on a flashlight in his head. Up close, it’s not bright yellow but more of a light amber shade. Yellow fading into a warm brown with specks of orange.

It's the most incredible thing Stiles has ever seen.

He is completely and totally awed.

But he must also have turned a little pale because Scott laughs, eyes dark brown and normal and just - _human_ \- again and says, “Relax! I’m not going to rip your throat out. No werewolf will, and there’s a lot of us in Beacon Hills. All betas, of course. Alphas are super rare. There’s only one around here.”

“There’s only one in California,” Lydia corrects with pursed lips.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles says and his voice comes out raspy and thin.

He feels like he’s going to faint.

Seriously, any second, just drop dead right there on the floor in front of Lydia Martin’s fancy black and white heels. Chanels, from the looks of it.

“Dude, your heart is racing,” Scott says which really doesn’t help at all because that's just a fucking creepy thing to say.

And then, “You didn’t know this?”

Stiles can only shake his head and Lydia snorts.

When she speaks she has gone from sweet and smiling to snarky hag. Classic high school queen.

“Where is your brain, McCall? Have you even been listening at all in History? The supernatural is not generally known anywhere. Only in Beacon Hills and a few other places, maybe a dozen all over the planet.”

“What, you serious?” Scott says, eyes wide with surprise.

Lydia rolls her eyes like she can’t believe she’s even having this conversation.

“God, you’re dumb... no? Or why do you think you’ll never hear a sentence like ‘The question is, What’s wolfsbane alcohol, Alex,’ on TV? Mh?”

Scott gives her a look as if she just told him that Azeroth isn’t a real continent.

“No way... I- I just thought it wasn’t simply that interesting. Like, we’re only a minority anyway, right? I haven’t ever seen Native Americans on TV either.”

“Thick as a plank,” Lydia mutters under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief.

“A-and, are you a – a werewolf, too?” Stiles is saying now, his voice almost a whisper.

Somehow his tongue doesn’t quite want to wrap around the word yet. Like he tried to say, ‘That’s going to be a pound of unicorn meat, please’.

Wait.

There’s no such things as unicorns.

Right?

God.

What’s happening.

“Are you referring to me?” Lydia says and Stiles nods.

“I,” she pauses, probably for the dramatic effect, “am a banshee. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Scott repeats with a snort like there’s something about Lydia that’s just so banshee-like.

“Obviously,” Stiles mouths.

Maybe he should just go home for the day.

“Banshees,” Lydia starts explaining, correctly interpreting the look on Stiles’ face as utter confusion, “are _pretty_ rare.” She smiles haughtily and flicks her strawberry red hair back over her shoulder. “Every third person in Beacon Hills is a beta werewolf but there’s only about fifty banshees.”

“Give or take,” Scott interjects who is reading his comic again. “Feels like a thousand sometimes. In this very room alone.”

Lydia glares at him.

“ _Banshees_ are _cultivated_. We don’t solve every problem with brute force like werewolves and other shapeshifters.”

“No, you just shriek. That’s so much more sophisticated,” Scott says but Lydia ignores him. She lets her gaze wander through the classroom that is starting to fill up again.

Stiles checks his phone. It takes him a few seconds until he can actually read the numbers, his hand is shaking that much.

Alright.

The sixth period is almost over even though the teacher hasn’t even shown up yet.

Three guys and a girl are presently stumbling back into the room and they all look pretty bad, so they must have been among the bunch of people who Derek Hale just beat up. They are covered in bruises, one girl is clutching her wrist and a guy is bleeding profusely from a wound on his forehead. Stiles can’t help but stare at him and wonder if anyone has even told him about it yet. He’s holding his chest and looks, all in all, pretty battered just like the rest of them. As soon as Lydia Martin spots him, she darts over to his desk.

“Jackson, didn’t I tell you to practice?” she hisses, flicking her eyes to the wound on his head with a cold look on her face.

The boy called Jackson mutters something that Stiles can’t hear and Lydia shrieks, “Because starting senior year, I’ll be dating the alpha!”

God, there’s really something nerve-wracking to her voice. Like a thousand nails scraping over a blackboard.

Jackson works his jaws, seems really angry now, and looks up at her.

“Sucks to be you then, Lydia,” he grits out, “because last time I checked Derek Hale paid you as much attention as the town ghoul.”

Stiles can hear Lydia suck in a deep breath from all across the room and thinks, _Uh-oh_.

As expected, Lydia throws her hair out of her face furiously and starts hissing at Jackson, absolutely outraged, but Stiles can’t hear a single word of it because people all around them are now chattering and laughing and saying stuff like, “Aiden threw a punch that was not too shabby, did you see that?” and “Man, Hinako is never going to give up, the old hag. How can someone so little be so strong?”

“What’s up with those two?” Stiles says, watching Lydia screw up her nose at the blood that is pooling on the desk in front of her.

“That’s Jackson,” Scott says and puts his comic book down.

“God, she must hate him,” Stiles mutters with a look at Lydia’s face who’s watching with a mixture of disgust and hostility as Jackson wipes down his blood-smeared desk with a paper towel.

Scott shrugs.

“Jackson’s her boyfriend but yeah, you might be right...”

“Her boyfriend? What the... and - where are you going?"

Scott, who had been stuffing his comic book and water bottle back into his bag looks up.

“Don’t we have Chemistry?”

“Unlikely,” Scott says. He gets up and shoulders his backpack. “You haven’t met him yet but Mr. Willoughby is a really nasty beta... he’s usually one of the first to jump at Derek and one of the last to go down so I bet he’s in his office, licking his wounds right now...”

“Does that happen a lot?” Stiles says, the same question he’d already asked Lydia, but he still can’t believe this.

Any of this.

He starts throwing his books into his bag, copying Scott.

“Relatively speaking... I guess, yeah,” Scott is saying now. “It’s like Lydia said, whenever Derek so much as shows his face anywhere people want to beat the shit out of him. People envy him because an alpha’s like, you know... crazy powerful, but I think it must really suck to be one.”

“Suck?”

“Yeah, like – everywhere you go people just want to shove your nose into the dirt. Doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

Stiles nods. No, that definitely doesn’t sound like something he’d enjoy doing.

It sounded like a lot of hard work.

“Come on, let’s grab lunch,” Scott says, nodding over to the door.

When they walk out of the room, Stiles throws a side glance at Jackson who has his face buried in his hands while Lydia is still fuming and spitting out insults, at least judging from the words Stiles can pick up on his way out like ‘moron’ and ‘incompetent’.

 

 

Stiles is still trying to wrap his head around everything he just heard – and _saw_ – so he’s really glad to have Scott show him the way to the cafeteria and then steer him through the crowd. The cafeteria is pretty big, with about four hundred students trying to get their hands on the last couple of French fries or the last burger for the day.

“Ugh, what is that?” Stiles nudges Scott in the ribs who puts a bowl of mashed potatoes onto his tray and then flicks his eyes over to the ghastly looking brownish mass that Stiles is pointing at and that exudes a strong smell like blood and – avocado?

“Oh, don’t touch that,” Scott says and Stiles thinks that he wouldn’t even if he were starving.

“It’s for windiigos only.”

He taps his index finger against a sign above the stainless steel bin and two others filled with a similar looking goo that says _Gluten-free, Lactose-free, Vegetable-free – Windiigos Only_.

“Looks nasty, right?” Scott says and he lowers his voice, “Well, you should see the windiigos then... these guys give you the creeps...”

A skinny and very pale boy with raven-black hair and dark circles around his eyes who was just scooping ladles full of the greyish-brown matter into a bowl on his tray throws Scott an icy look.

Scott motions for Stiles to follow him, mouthing, “See? Creepy!”

Soon they are wedged in between other students who couldn’t care less about them and even though, aside from Finstock’s _“This is Bilinski! God that’s a stupid name,”_ Stiles can’t say that the day has been too bad so far, he’s not exactly comfortable either because, come on.

Werewolves?

Banshees?

And he’d rather not give in to his curiosity and google _windiigo_ because the creepy, pale kid just took a seat at the table behind Scott and even though Stiles tries to keep his eyes either on Scott’s face or on his own plate, he can just tell that the dude is staring him down.

What kind of place is this anyway?

“So, Derek Hale is an alpha and that’s why everyone wants to fight him.”

Scott is already shoveling spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into his mouth and nods.

“Because when you defeat an alpha – you become the new alpha?”

Scott nods again, swallows and says, “Yeah, used to that people thought you have to actually kill an alpha to get his powers. But it’s really enough to just beat him senseless. Or her. Defeat them, you know?”

Stiles frowns.

“But wouldn’t he die anyway? I mean, if you hit someone hard enough...”

“Nah... we heal,” Scott says, mouth full of steak, “or do you see anyone in here who still looks like they’re hurting?”

Stiles throws a surprised look around and, as a matter of fact, can’t spot anything but a few shredded t-shirts here and there, and dried droplets of blood on pants and jackets.

“And do you – do you turn into a wolf every month?” Stiles says. The girl next to Scott lifts her eyes up from her smartphone and throws him a pitiful look like she can’t believe Stiles would ask a question like that. But Scott just laughs and starts digging into his chocolate pudding.

“No, dude, not really. I mean, full moons do have an effect on us but it’s more like – mood swings.”

Stiles frowns.

Scott leans back, eyeing Stiles’ untouched soup.

“Are you eating that?”

Stiles shakes his head. He’s far too excited to get anything down right now and, quite frankly, he’s still a little nauseated from smelling the windiigo food – and the way that pale kid behind Scott is slurping up the grey mass in his bowl very audibly isn’t making it any better.

“You can have it, if you want.”

“Neat,” Scott says and beams at him.

“Scott, how come no one knows about all of this but here in Beacon Hills... _everyone_ seems to know?”

Scott drops the spoon into the empty bowl before him and laughs again.

“Yeah, crazy right? I keep forgetting about that... I don’t really know. I just know that in Beacon Hills, it has always been like this. Everywhere else, supernatural people are, like, pretending to be regular people, I think. Beacon Hills is the only town where creatures who can’t really hide their supernatural powers very well get a decent job – like nymphs or ghouls.”

“G-ghouls?”

“Yeah, they’re pretty messy. In Beacon Hills they’re in charge of garbage removal...”

“Garbage removal?”

“Yeah, they pick up, like, household waste and stuff.”

“Pick it up? You mean, with trucks?”

Stiles can’t help but just repeat every fucking sentence Scott is throwing at him.

This is just too unbelievable and the most bizarre thing is really the total matter-of-fact tone in which Scott is talking about this. Like he’s trying to explain to Stiles step by step how quidditch works.

“Yeah, they come pick it up like every other week or so and er... then they, er... eat it.”

“What?”

“They eat it. And they make one hell of a mess doing it, so it’s pretty hard for them to hide, right?”

“Right,” Stiles says feebly. “So ghouls eat trash. How many are there?”

Scott shrugs.

“I don’t know – hundreds? No idea.”

Someone _tsk-tsks_ and Stiles turns around. It’s Lydia Martin who is now waving her finger at Scott.

“You might really want to pick up a history book now and then, Scott McCall,” Lydia says and Scott looks like he can’t believe that she has spoken to him twice now in one day.

“Ghouls are rare, _almost_ as rare as _banshees_ , and most of them live in places with huge waste deposits, in big urban areas that produce a lot of trash. But there’s _fifteen_ in Beacon Hills. Sixteen, actually. I heard the Johnsons had a baby.”

And, because Stiles must still have that big question mark on his face, “Family who runs the Beacon Hills Waste Management Company. It’s private owned, you know.”

Yeah, right. Because _that’s_ the thing Stiles would have questioned about her story.

“Move,” Lydia says now and the two girls next to Stiles shoot up from the bench, throwing Lydia shy and admiring glances. She takes a seat and her boyfriend Jackson slams his tray down next to where Lydia’s purse lands on the table.

There’s still a markedly sour look on his face.

He doesn’t even acknowledge Stiles’ and Scott’s presence but starts munching his fries in gloomy silence and Stiles thinks that Jackson is really handsome. He looks like a male underwear model with his classic features and buff body – or he would if he put on a friendlier, or at least more neutral, face.

Then again, he just got the shit beaten out of him by an alpha werewolf, so Stiles should probably mind his own business.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Stiles just realized that Lydia didn’t bring a tray. Lydia lets out a _tsk-tsk-tsk_ again, like Stiles is being particularly stupid right now.

“Oh, sweetie. I don’t have to. You, see – I’m Lydia Martin.”

Scott is shaking his head and grinning and Stiles watches with wide eyes as Lydia goes, ‘I have such a _craving_ for pudding,’ and hands shoot out to her from all over the table, shoving strawberry pudding, and vanilla and peppermint and chocolate into her line of sight, one guy even reaching around Stiles’ shoulder silently and really fast, and making him flinch in surprise.

Lydia smirks, satisfied, and picks strawberry. Then people start literally throwing spoons at her and Stiles wonders if everyone in the cafeteria is carrying additional plastic spoons and forks and knifes just to get a brief smile and approving nod from Lydia Martin.

Jackson snorts but doesn’t say anything and Lydia jerks her head in his direction at light speed.

“You were saying?”

He shakes his head and Lydia narrows her eyes.

Scott and Stiles exchange a look.

Jackson is in a pretty bad fix now. Not say anything and Lydia might go ballistic on him. Say what he wants to say and the same thing will probably happen.

Stiles decides, it’s time for a mental note. _Do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, mess with Lydia Martin_.

He needs to remember to ask Scott how powerful banshees are and if they’re more or less dangerous than werewolves. Derek Hale looked pretty damn dangerous to him but then he wouldn’t know what other creatures can do. On a side note, the windiigo kid is apparently done eating and now just sits there staring at Stiles and he gets what Scott meant by, _they give him the creeps_.

He really, _really_ gets it.

In fact, the more attentively Stiles is looking around now, the more certain he is that Scott and Lydia are really telling the truth which also means, thank God, that he is _not_ losing his mind. All these people around him look like regular people and, Stiles thinks, most of them probably are.

But there’s a girl with her hair pulled back into a blond ponytail at the bottom end of their table who’s painting her very deadly looking 2-inch-talons with pink nail polish, and Stiles really wonders why, considering that they have such a pretty blue glow to them and all.

Lydia and Jackson are still glaring at each other.

Then Jackson turns to his cheeseburger, opens his mouth, but before he takes a bite, he says, “As if an alpha would mate a goddamn banshee, especially when she’s such an attention seeking bitch. He'd rather pick Mrs. Allen, I bet...”

The whole table, at least fifteen people, goes dead silent. The blond girl stops painting her nails, brush suspended in mid-air and dripping pink liquid onto the table, and throws Jackson an incredulous look.

Stiles makes another mental note. _Ask Scott about supernatural hearing_.

Lydia is actually rendered speechless and Stiles thinks that this can’t be a good sign. Jackson obviously does so as well because he quickly adds, “Lydia, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Jackson, that was low,” Scott interrupts him and Jackson glares at him.

The corners of his mouth twist downwards even more, and he spits out, “Shut the hell up, you – _filthy_ _omega_.”

A silence, more deadly than the one before.

Stiles watches with amazement as Scott gets a stony expression on his face which looks really odd on a dude like him who is basically constantly smiling. Apparently, Jackson just said something extremely insulting.

“Come on, Stiles, let’s get some – air,” Scott grits out. “It’s just too – dumb in here.”

Stiles swipes his tray off the table and hurries after him.

Scott slams his tray onto the counter for used dishes with such force that Stiles is convinced he heard something crack.

A minute later, they can still hear Lydia yelling at Jackson through the closed cafeteria doors.

Stiles follows Scott down the hallway, not sure what to say.

“Jackson’s really an asshole,” Scott mutters after a while and Stiles is relieved to see the corner of his mouth pull up into a faint smile again. “But I guess it’s not so surprising. He’s been trying to get into Derek’s pack for ages and Derek manages to knock him out every single time. He’s probably sick of spending half of his time in high school with his ribs knitting themselves back together and really just mad at himself and that’s why he lashes out...”

Stiles throws Scott an admiring glance. No matter what Lydia says, Scott doesn’t strike Stiles as stupid at all. On the very opposite.

“But Lydia seems ok?”

Scott shrugs.

“She’s not a bad person, I guess. But I swear, today was the first time she ever really talked to me. It’s really weird, how she called me Scott earlier, too. I didn’t even know she knows my name. She seems to like you.”

“What – me?” Stiles says and blinks. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

Stiles takes a deep breath as soon as they’re outside.

The weather is nice and it feels good to get away from the noise in the cafeteria. Get some space to digest the huge discoveries he’s made today.

Like a veil that’s slowly being pulled back from reality in front of his very eyes and he – right now, he’s too agitated, too unsettled altogether to be thrilled about it, to really _feel_ what’s going on here.

But it’s just a matter of time.

For the moment, however, he keeps asking questions, carefully storing away every new piece of information in his memory for later use.

To put the pieces together when he’s alone in his room and has time to think.

“Is Lydia dangerous, somehow?”

“Well, if you ask me, definitely. Her voice can shatter glass, I’ve seen it, you know? Boy, and _heard_ it, too. Jackson bought her this really crappy Valentine’s Day’s gift last year...,” Scott says and he’s grinning at Stiles as they flop down in the shade of a tree.

“She yelled at him for ten minutes straight. We were all down under our desks and hands over our ears like this,” and he clutches his hands over his ears and grimaces to show Stiles what he must have looked like, “but I swear, when I came up again, I saw Jackson bleeding out of his ears. He had to go to the nurse's office right away. Man, that was trippy. You just don’t mess with a banshee. And you don’t give Lydia a fake Gucci watch for Valentine's.”

“Uh, okay. Noted. So she _is_ dangerous. Like – a Derek Hale kind of dangerous?”

“No one’s dangerous like Derek Hale,” Scott says. “Lydia is just the most popular girl in school and that already makes her dangerous, no supernatural powers necessary, right? And, hey – Derek Hale seems to be _really_ stuck in your head,” and he laughs because Stiles is shaking his head a little too vividly now.

“He’s not, it’s just – this is really crazy. All of this. And why does everybody seem to know an old lady called Mrs. Allen?”

Stiles suddenly remembers that his dad had immediately known whose brick wall it had been that Derek had slammed this blond kid into the day before.

Like there was only one house in all of Beacon Hills surrounded by a brick wall.

“Mrs. Allen... well. That’s because – ok, where to start... and you really never heard anything about the supernatural before?”

“Well, I’m a big fan of Supernatural...” Stiles offers and, because Scott frowns, not quite getting it, he adds, “The TV show.”

“Oh,” Scott says. “Okay.”

“So, Mrs. Allen.”

“Right,” Scott says and fishes a Snickers bar out of his backpack. “Want half?”

Stiles nods and Scott unwraps the bar, splits it into two pieces and hands one of them over to Stiles.

While Scott just throws the whole piece into his mouth, chews once, then swallows, Stiles bites off a small piece and takes a deep breath.

Sitting here in the grass, in the shade of a tree behind the school with Scott McCall who is as weird as Stiles, only in shabbier clothes, the sky light blue with a few grey clouds hanging above them like cotton balls in a porcelain bowl, like it might rain later that day, and waiting for Scott to continue what is probably the most exciting story Stiles has ever heard in his whole life, the fairy tales his mom used to tell him included, he thinks – he’s thinking that for once, taking everything into consideration, life is pretty good right now.

“Okay, wow, where to start.... werewolves – okay, no. Wait. Okay – _alphas_ are like, incredibly strong. Alright? Only werewolves have alphas and they’re like natural leaders among supernatural creatures. They’re basically the most powerful creatures on the planet, if you don’t count – okay, I’ll tell you about that later,” and while he’s talking he’s gesturing wildly and Stiles thinks that Scott really is a lot like him.

Yeah, Scott is awesome.

Stiles is really hoping they’ll become friends.

Maybe they’re friends already, Stiles wouldn’t really know about how that works, if it usually takes more than half a day to become friends. He’s never really had friends before, if that’s what you call people you hang out with and who’d care if you died.

“Alright, first, about alphas. Used to be more of them in the olden days when every pack really needed an alpha to survive. Today though alpha power is sort of dying out. Getting extinguished – I mean, it can never really vanish completely, that’s not how it works, I think. Like – all the supernatural is connected and there has to always be a leader. But all in all, I think they’re just not needed so much anymore, so there’s less and less children born with it and more alphas just taking their power to the grave.”

“So Derek was – born like this?”

Scott shakes his head.

“No, he was born a beta, but then he fought his mother for it and defeated her when he was sixteen years old. The alpha in California has always been a Hale for centuries. Er, I think,” he furrows his brow like he’s thinking, then says, slowly, “Probably, yeah. Sounds right.”

“What? Sixteen? Are you sure?”

I’m sixteen, is what Stiles is thinking.

“Yeah, since the fight is a legend around here... pretty sure, man. But in any case, he's a born wolf.”

“Wow... and he’s been the alpha here since then.”

Scott nods.

“And from what Deaton tells me – er, Alan Deaton, that’s my boss – Derek’s the strongest alpha he’s ever seen, so that means – pretty strong. People come from everywhere just to get a shot at defeating him, his power is so unique apparently.”

“But – why? And what’s so special about Beacon Hills anyway? This town looks pretty boring to me...,” Stiles says, but it’s not with displeasure this time, just stating a fact and he looks up to the blue sky, then lets his gaze wander around the almost empty school yard and to the place beyond it that is halfway shielded off from sight by wooden structures like an amphitheater. That must be the lacrosse field.

Mental note. _Ask Scott about lacrosse_.

“Yeah, well...,” Scott is saying, “Beacon Hills is like – I don’t know, I mean, you heard Lydia, it’s one of a couple of dozen magic towns around the world. You’d have to ask Lydia for the exact numbers though. She’s doesn’t look like it but she’s kind of a nerd.”

Stiles lets out a snorting laugh. He can’t think of any single person who looks less like a nerd than Lydia Martin.

“And what does that have to do with Mrs. Allen?”

“Right,” Scott says eagerly. He seems to really enjoy being listened to. Stiles suspects that that doesn’t happen too often and he wonders why. Scott is a really cool guy.

The fact that he doesn’t want to join the rest of the school in trying to tear apart Derek Hale couldn’t possibly be the reason.

Or could it?

Is that – a supernatural thing maybe, like a law that Stiles doesn’t know about yet?

“So there’s only one alpha in California.”

Stiles nods, yeah.

Yeah, he got that.

“Derek Hale.”

“Exactly, Derek Hale. There’s like fifteen or so more in the U.S. and probably a couple of hundred all around the globe. I don’t really know, again, you’d have to ask someone else for the numbers.”

“Right,” Stiles says.

“And Lydia has been crushing on Derek for years. Most girls probably have, to tell you the truth.” And his face darkens a little.

“Can’t blame them,” Stiles mutters and Scott sighs.

“Yeah, well... the love life for a beta werewolf in a town with an alpha is pretty tough. It’s like a natural power thing. Every supernatural creature feels instinctively drawn to that kind of power. And then, Derek just...”

“...looks the way he does,” Stiles finishes his sentence.

“Yeah,” Scott says, grinning at Stiles. “Every other alpha I’ve ever seen just looks like a hobo who works out 24/7, but Derek – yeah. You should hear the way people are talking about him, like he’s some sort of God. But if you ask me, I don’t know. That leather jacket is kind of douchy, don’t you think?”

Stiles shrugs.

Douchy isn’t really the word that comes to his mind when he pictures Derek Hale in his leather jacket. More like drop-dead gorgeous.

Scott doesn’t sound jealous either, the way he said it. More matter-of-factly, really.

Like he’s the only person around who is inexplicably immune to the charms of Derek Hale, alpha.

When Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, Scott is lifting his eyebrows at him and Stiles quickly says, “Yeah. Douchy. Totally,” and clears his throat.

“So back to your question. The reason why Jackson really insulted Lydia when he mentioned Mrs. Allen is a little complicated to explain – it has to do with werewolf mating rites and I guess that would be kind of – too much for a virgin of the supernatural like you.”

He’s grinning at Stiles and Stiles has to laugh.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Alright, Bilinski,” Scott says and Stiles nudges his shoulder in mock-outrage.

Yeah, this really is a good day.

An extremely strange day, too.

But a good one, nonetheless.

“But the thing is, if an alpha werewolf were to pick a mate, er – a mate is a partner, basically, a partner for life, not necessarily in a sexual way – so if an alpha were to mate, he’d probably rather pick a beta werewolf than a banshee because they’re more alike. And rather than a beta, he or she would probably pick a spark. For tactical reasons, you know.”

“Spark?”

Where has he heard that term before?

He feels like it was very recently, too.

But that can’t be possible.

He has only known about the supernatural since after fourth period.

“No matter what Lydia says about which supernatural creatures are the rarest – everyone knows that it’s sparks.”

“And Mrs. Allen is one?”

Scott nods.

“And so is my boss, Dr. Deaton,” he adds, proudly. “He’s the vet at the animal clinic of Beacon Hills. I work there in the evenings.”

“Cool. So you work with animals?”

Scott nods his head.

“Yeah. I always wanted a dog but my mom thinks it’s too much work since, you know. We basically already have a dog problem,” he says, grinning again. “And when I wanted to get a bike, I started at the clinic. And it’s a really cool job, too, Dr. Deaton’s the best.”

Stiles nods. “Cool. Sounds cool.” And, a little guiltily because he should clearly ask Scott about his mom, about his job and all, but is so curious about this new world that he feels like he might explode if he can’t get anything else out of Scott, “Who are the other sparks? Are there some at school?”

And he lets his eyes wander about the schoolyard and over the scattered groups of teenagers camping out in the sun, eyeing them expectantly as if any one of them might just jump up and yell, _I’m a spark!_ , any second.

“No, I told you, sparks are rare. _Incredibly_ rare, not like, banshee-rare. There’s only two sparks in all of North America – at least from what we know – and both live in Beacon Hills, and that’s Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Allen. Sparks are the only creatures that can, like, single-handedly, defeat alpha werewolves, you know, and basically anything else. They have all kinds of powers but without the anger issues of werewolves. And to mate a spark is like – the ultimate power boost. Like marrying into the royal family. Even if you're not an alpha - okay, maybe even  _especially_ if you're not an alpha but weaker - that would be a _huge_ thing.”

“So if Derek – _mated_ with a spark...,” Stiles starts, and he tilts his head a little to the side like he’s thinking, trying to get accommodated to this new language, “He’d become even stronger? But – Mrs. Allen must be like – a hundred!”

Scott snorts out a laugh.

“Yeah, funny idea, isn’t it? But, you know, hypothetically... I know for a fact that she still gets a lot of offers from all kinds of supernatural creatures. An alpha from Brazil once sent her a box filled with tarantulas.”

“What? He did what? An alpha from – Brazil?”

“Yeah, because, you know, there’s this prejudice that sparks throw all sorts of creepy crawly things into the potions they’re brewing. He probably just figured, _Hey, she could use a few of those_...”

“So they’re basically witches.”

“Not really,” Scott says, “but, as I said, there’s a lot of prejudices about sparks and the right ways to, like, court them. I guess that is because most supernatural creatures have never even seen one. Whenever someone’s spark powers start showing, they like... go down in history. In supernatural history, anyway.”

“Did Derek – court Mrs. Allen, too?”

At this, Scott actually throws his head back and lets out a roaring laugh that makes him almost fall over.

“God, Stiles... No. Totally and absolutely, no. Really, definitely not. And Dr. Deaton isn’t the kind of mate I could picture with Derek either.”

“Because he’s a guy.”

“What? No! That doesn’t really matter in - _our_ world. More because Deaton’s a loner. And a really wise man. I couldn’t picture him with a hothead who beats dozens of people into a pulp of flesh every day.”

Scott is wiping away tears of laughter now, has calmed down again a little bit but he’s still chuckling.

“Tss, Derek and Mrs. Allan... ha, what an idea. No, and about Dr. Deaton, you’d know once you’ve seen them together. Whenever Derek shows up at the animal clinic he gets really mad because he can’t make Dr. Deaton just give him a lotion or cast a spell. Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Allen are the only people who don’t cater to Derek Hale’s every whim.”

“ _Cast a spell?!,_ ” Stiles repeats breathlessly but Scott says, loudly, “What is it, Erica?” and Stiles stops and stares at him.

“I – I’m Stiles. Remember?”

Scott laughs and shakes his head.

“He was talking to me,” a low voice is saying and Stiles turns around. A very pretty girl in black high heels and a leather miniskirt is leaning against the tree trunk behind them. She has long, wavy blond hair, smoky eyes and, there’s just no other word for it, looks totally badass.

Stiles hasn’t even heard her coming but, apparently, Scott knew she was there all along.

“Erica Reyes,” she says, leans over and extends her hand. Stiles stares down at her blood red nail polish and then, hesitantly, shakes her hand and when she closes her fingers around his an odd image shoots into his head, of a mouse trapped between the paws of a big black cat.

“So, you’re the new kid.”

Stiles nods.

“Stilinski’s son?”

Another nod.

“What do you want?” Scott says testily as if he knows from experience that Erica strutting over usually means something unpleasant is about to happen.

“I heard you talking about my boss all across the school yard so I thought... I should throw in a few words on his behalf.”

She lifts her eyebrows and it’s a completely different kind of haughty than when Lydia Martin does it. Lydia is adorable, no matter how arrogantly she flicks her hair back over her shoulder. Erica Reyes, in contrast... seems dangerous. Powerful and deadly. She’s the second most predatory looking person Stiles has ever seen, superseded only by Derek Hale.

“Yeah, right. Because you care so much about anything anyone’s thinking,” Scott says sarcastically and Stiles can’t help but admire his courage. He’s pretty sure that even a thistle would wither away under the nasty look Erica is giving him right now.

“Come on, Stiles, let’s go in. The next period starts in five minutes.”

They just leave Erica standing under the tree and glowering at their backs which is, if you ask Stiles, an incredibly uncomfortable feeling, and hurry back to the building because five minutes isn’t really that much.

“By the way,” Scott says when he’s holding the door open for Stiles to slip inside, “most supernatural creatures also have supernatural hearing so – if there’s anything you’d like to keep private, just don’t mention it anywhere near school.”

 

 

 

“How was school?” is the first thing his father says when Stiles pushes the front door closed.

Stiles drops his backpack onto the floor and glares.

“ _How was school_?!”

“Yeah,” his father responds. “How was school? Did you make any friends yet?”

“Do you mean among the _werewolves_ or among the _windiigos_?!”

“Windiigos? These guys give me the creeps... er, I mean. What?”

“Yeah, drop the act. So you knew about this. All of it?”

He looks at his father with a piercing gaze as if he’s trying to stare a hole into his head and John Stilinski sighs.

“I’m the sheriff of this place, have been for eight years now and working here for all my life before that. Your mom was born here, you know? In the Beacon Hills hospital and when I met her, I came to live with her here. So what do you think, Stiles? Being called to break up an act of domestic violence and then finding a windiigo on the kitchen floor who has accidentally swallowed half his mother is something that can’t easily be un-seen... so what would you say? Do you think there’s a chance that I couldn’t have caught on to the blatant supernaturalness of this town within my first week on duty here? My deputy is a hellhound, for God’s sake.”

“ _You’re_ not the one who’s allowed to throw rhetorical questions around here,” Stiles hisses, deciding to ignore the fact that he really wants to yell, _A hellhound?! A literal hound out of hell?!_

“So you knew that this town is a goddamn freak show and you just thought, ‘Oh, let Stiles just find out for himself, oh, he’s going to have so much fun.’”

His father considers at him for a moment.

“I’m sorry, son. Quite frankly, I didn’t think you’d believe a single word I could have said. Are you very mad at me?”

Stiles snorts out a breath and flops down on the sofa.

“No...,” he says after a moment, “No, I’m not.”

His father sits down next to him, an earnest expression on his face.

“Are you scared? You can tell me, son. There’s another school in this town with a lesser percentage of supernatural students, we could-”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says quickly. “I – I was just – really freaking surprised, is all...”

More like, shocked out of his mind.

His father smiles. He’s fingering what looks like one of the silly rubber fish, and Stiles watches for a few seconds as his dad lets its eyes well out and get sucked back in again, out and in. Out and in. It’s sort of a soothing thing to watch.

“So there’s werewolves...”

“All kinds of weres actually. Werewolves are only the most common because they are the strongest. Pretty tough to deal with, I can tell you. 35% of Beacon Hills’ population are werewolves. But there’s also were-coyotes, were-cats, were-bears. I even met a were-squirrel once. Polite little guy but really annoying to talk to.”

“Wow...”

“So... what do you think?”

“...It’s... it’s actually pretty cool,” Stiles admits and his dad’s smile widens.

“That’s my son.”

“Yeah, yeah...,” Stiles says and jumps up from the sofa. The man is his dad but they’re not really that close yet. Sure, they’ve talked on the phone every week but Stiles has only ever seen him about twice a year. And there was a time when he had – _resented_ him for basically dumping him at his grandma’s four weeks after his mom had died.

His dad had moved back to Beacon Hills, his deceased wife’s hometown to be closer to her memories and Stiles – had had to come to terms with the loss of two of his parents.

So yeah.

He’d need some time to get accustomed to his dad, all this supernatural craziness aside, so he just averts his eyes from his dad’s smiling face and goes, “What’s for dinner?”

Like a real teenager.

“Salmon,” his dad says and gets up as well, “but I still have to fry it and maybe peel a few potatoes...”

“Cool,” Stiles says following his dad into the kitchen, “and what’s with you and seafood anyway?”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

When Stiles is drawing close to Mrs. Allen’s the next morning on his way to school, the old lady herself is crouching on the sidewalk, a bucket with plaster next to her.

Oh, great, Stiles is thinking. He is tired because that was the second night he couldn’t really sleep. There were too many things whirling around in his head, so he got up again at 2a.m. and started scribbling everything he remembered from his conversation with Scott down, hoping that having it all written out would finally put his mind to ease.

So he’s tired and somehow has the strong feeling that the old lady will not let him pass without a snide comment. Plus, now that he knows that Mrs. Allen is some kind of witch and literally one of two people in this whole town, the whole world even, stronger than Derek Hale he’d rather not hover.

“Good morning,” Stiles says politely and walks a little faster.

But, of course, it’s pointless.

Mrs. Allen lets her head snap up from the wall she’d been working on, flicks her eyes over to him and yells, “Hey, Stilinski!”

Stiles freezes and turns around very slowly like the girl in a horror movie who just realized that the monster has been behind her all along.

Mrs. Allen has picked herself up from the ground and is rubbing the fabric of her ugly flower patterned apron over the lenses of her big glasses. Apparently deeming them clean enough after a few seconds she shoves them back into her face and starts scrutinizing Stiles who can’t shake the image of the big bad wolf eyeing him and snarling, _So I better can see!_

“I know your father,” she says in her harsh tone. If Stiles didn’t know any better he would say that she is related to Coach Finstock, the way she’s bossing people around constantly and yelling at everyone.

“Has a windiigo devoured your vocal chords?”

Stiles quickly shakes his head, then goes, “No. Ma’am. No, ma’am. Er... fixing your wall?”

She harrumphs and flicks her eyes over to the spots of fresh plaster and Stiles has to admit that she did a pretty good job.

“Fourth time in two months. You would think Derek Hale would have learned to defeat these clowns without having to make such a mess every time by now.”

 She looks Stiles up and down.

“Where you going at 7:30 in the morning?”

“School,” Stiles mutters and when she narrows her eyes, quickly adds, “Ma’am.”

“Don’t you have a car like all the other spoiled teenagers? You would think that at least the supernatural kids would be walking what with their superhuman strength and speed and all, but no. Brats, all of them.”

Then she stares Stiles down, brow furrowed which, for some reason, makes Stiles think of a thunderstorm. She’s obviously expecting an answer.

Stiles clears his throat, says, “Y-yes. I do have a car, er... a Jeep. I drove to school yesterday but today it wouldn’t start, er... It’s pretty old, too, and I can’t get it to work half of the time, so...”

“The engine wouldn’t start and so you have to walk?”

“It’s not that far. I can get to school within 20 minutes or so. 15 if I run a little. At least, that’s what my dad said.”

Mrs. Allen looks him up and down for a few more seconds, then she nods and barks, “Off you go!”

Lovely.

Really lovely.

Ten minutes later, Stiles can see the school building and the crowd of students gathered in front and thinks, gloomily, ‘Great, now everyone sees the new kid walking here, because I own the literally biggest piece of shit Jeep on the surface of the planet...’

“Stiles!”

Stiles turns and sees Scott wobbling in his direction on what looks like his great-grandmother’s bike. He gives Scott a wide smile and Scott is beaming back at him.

“Did you walk here?”

Stiles nods his head up and down.

“Yeah, piece of shit Jeep wouldn’t start. Once again. There’s always like a fifty-fifty chance that it will, so I’m usually more or less prepared to walk...” He takes a deep sigh.

“At least you have a car,” Scott says with a friendly smile and Stiles immediately feels a pang of guilt.

Maybe Mrs. Allen was on to something.

Maybe he is spoiled.

They walk over to the bike rack and Scott crams his bike in between two others that look a lot nicer and newer.

When Scott is turning away and starting towards the school building, Stiles says, “Aren’t you going to lock it?”

Scott lifts his eyebrows.

“At a school where like 40% of the pupils have fangs and consider a chain and a lock some sort of a challenge? Not really, man.... besides, even a four-year-old werewolf could pop anything I could ever put onto this thing and I mean, look at it... I highly doubt mine would be the first bike anyone would take...”

“Ok, I get it.”

Scott gives him another one of his friendly and wide-open smiles and says, “Have you digested the whole _the supernatural exists_ thing yet?”

“Not sure, man... when I woke up this morning I was dead certain I dreamed the whole thing for like five minutes... then I packed my bag for today and – our book for biology is called _The Bestiary_? I mean, seriously? Does this school have like a different curriculum?”

Scott shrugs.

“I don’t really know but I guess – most of the stuff is, like, pretty regular. But in Chemistry we’re looking at kanima venom right now. And, you know, draw the ts-molecule and stuff... but since we didn’t have Chemistry yesterday, I guess you wouldn’t know...”

“What molecule?”

“Oh, something this one dude, F. Hopper Argent, discovered in the 50s or something, and that’s the reason for the paralyzing effect of kanima venom, er – I really don’t know, I studied really hard for the last exam but I suck at school. I got like the worst grades.”

“What’s a kan - ah, wait a second. _Argent_...,” Stiles is saying slowly as they start walking towards the school. “That name kind of rings a bell...”

“Yeah, it should. Half of our school books were written by Argents. And our principal is one, too. Gerard Argent.”

“Right,” Stiles says as recognition hits him. “ _The Bestiary_ , volume 3, by John E. M. Argent.”

Scott nods and shrugs, “Probably. Sounds right. I never really looked at the name, I guess. But the Argents are an old hunter clan – you know, humans who have studied the supernatural for centuries and know a lot about it and, occasionally also have to keep it in check. There’s a lot of Argents in the police force, too. I think outside of Beacon Hills, they still hunt down and kill werewolves...”

“Kill? And... wait, the principal? That dude in flip-flops?”

Scott nods his head.

“And Hawaiian shirt, yeah. He’s sort of... a little crazy...”

“Figured,” Stiles says.

Suddenly, Stiles is being shoved out of the way with such force that he stumbles backwards and lands on his ass. There’s a snicker from a group of boys. Stiles recognizes Jackson who, haughty smile on his lips, is saying, “Move, Bilinski.”

“Fuck off, Jackson,” Scott snarls and extends his hand to help Stiles up again.

“You okay?”

Stiles nods, dusts off his pants and picks his bag up from the ground. When he lifts his head to look at Scott though, Scott’s eyes aren’t brown anymore.

They’re blazing yellow, gold even, and his mouth is full of white and very sharp looking canines, and Stiles – he just jumps, he can’t help it. And swallows.

Just – just how weird is that?

Seeing Scott so – Scott who has probably the nicest smile in the whole school looking so – _feral_ , there’s no other word for it. Yeah, it creeps him out.

At least, Stiles is a hundred percent certain now that Scott has been telling the truth.

Not that he’d really doubted him before but, you know – this is just too crazy to immediately believe without at least the tiniest flicker of a doubt.

Scott is staring at Jackson and what Stiles mistook for the low sound of an approaching car is really coming out of Scott’s mouth.

Stiles swallows again but Jackson’s smirk becomes just a tinge more condescending, his look even more icy.

“McCall, always the loudmouth. But everyone knows you’d never fight me – because you can’t. Filthy omega.”

Stiles can see that Scott is panting and working his jaws – and are those claws? And protruding over his lips like the most authentic alloween prosthetics Stiles has ever seen - _fangs_?

Yep, most definitely, claws, fangs, the whole package – and he thinks Jackson must be crazy to assume Scott wouldn’t try and punch that smug grin out of his stupid face so he jumps to his feet and, hesitantly and, admittedly, a little scared, touches Scott’s shoulder.

“Scott... he’s not worth it.”

“Listen to your sissy human friend,” Jackson says and Stiles is surprised at how he manages to look even more arrogant now.

Scott was completely right.

Jackson really is a dickhead.

Judging from the vein that is pulsating dangerously on Scott’s throat Stiles thinks that Scott might really have hurled himself at Jackson and his gang if a fancy black sports car hadn’t just pulled to the side of the road a few few away from where they're standing. Stiles hears a car door slam and the whole crowd in front of the school fall silent for a split second, like they’re one enormous creature inhaling, getting ready for the leap.

“Out of my way, McCall. Hale is here,” Jackson says and lets his canines drop out of his mouth and this time – this time, Stiles saw it clearly, the whole thing.

The white shards really legitimately shot out of his gums, in front of his human row of teeth. Stiles is swaying a little and there’s this feeling of weakness, of instability, in his knees, like someone swapped the bones with rubber all of a sudden.

Wow.

That’s just.

Wow.

Holy shit.

While he’s still wondering how long it will take for him to be able to watch a werewolf transform in front of his very eyes without having shudders run down his spine, Scott retracts his claws and fangs again and it takes just a second, like a _click_ and then they’re gone, and his eyes literally _extinguish_ , like someone dumped a bucket of water over the torch behind his eyeballs and the fire just _goes out_.

Stiles' heart is beating, just from seeing all of this happen close-up, and knowing what it means, too.

That it's real.

Holy shit, it really is real, true.

“Yeah, right, jackass” Scott is saying now and even though he’s back to human, it comes out with a snarl, a low growl, “Better hurry because you definitely have a shot today...,” and his voice is all but dripping with sarcasm and Jackson lets his eyes flare up bright yellow at him – his color seems to be a shade lighter than Scott’s anyway, is that possible? – and is working his jaw for a moment, but then pivots on his heel all of a sudden.

Stiles blinks and Jackson is already halfway there, dashing in the direction of Derek’s sports, to the place where the man – the _alpha_ – himself must be standing, or, squatting, already drowning in heaps of limbs and sports equipment.

Stiles is almost certain he saw a badminton racket stick up from the sea of heads and claws.

“Why does Derek even come here every morning when this is what happens as soon as he shows up?” Stiles says. They stand back and let the roaring and hollering hordes of students stampede past them.

Scott shrugs, “Mh, I don’t really know for sure but... just think about it – if Derek didn’t come here all these guys and girls would still want their shot at defeating the alpha. And if I were him, I’d rather get it over with within a few minutes every morning than have these morons literally jump at me in the grocery store or at the gas station.”

“Right,” Stiles nods. “Makes sense.”

They watch in silence for a few moments as Derek knocks the first ten students down without even blinking or moving around much, just smacks them unconscious single-handedly. Then, when Jackson and his crew come running at him – three of them wielding lacrosse sticks – he ducks down and his eyes flash red and Stiles swallows. Derek exudes vibes of power so strong that Stiles wonders what that must be like for the betas when even _he_ as a human can sense it. Because for a wolf to have the superior creature of your species, your boss, practically, go feral is probably some tough shit, right?

And indeed, he can see a bunch of younger looking kids pale and hesitate. A couple of them turn around and walk back to the school building, shoulders pulled up to their ears, looking all ashamed and meek, and Stiles thinks he can practically see the tail between their legs.

“Mh, he’s taking longer today than usual,” a girl who has been walking up to them is saying with a look at her cellphone and Stiles is surprised to see Scott’s cheeks redden almost immediately.

“H-hi Allison,” he stutters and the girl gives him a sweet smile. She’s really pretty, with long brown hair and dimples in her cheeks.

Why does almost everyone in this school look like a freaking celebrity? Is Stiles the only awkward kid who’s not drop dead gorgeous?

Well, he and the windiigo boy, obviously. Even though - come to think of it, the kid had had sort of a delicate beauty about him. Pale and frail looking but pretty, somehow, with regular features.

Despite his messy hair, Scott is handsome as well with broad shoulders and it’s obvious that he’s ripped, even though the brown sweater he’s wearing today is even more hideous than the grey sweater from the day before.

The girl extends her hand in Stiles’ direction and Stiles shakes it.

“Allison Argent,” she says and Stiles answers, “Stiles Stilinski.”

“Nice to meet you,” Allison says and Stiles frowns. “Argent...?”

“Yeah, the principal is my grandfather,” Allison says, grimaces like _well, you got me_ _there_ , and laughs nervously. “And I apologize in advance for everything.”

“For... everything...?” Stiles repeats, astonished. Yeah, the old guy looks funny but what could she possibly have to apologize for?

“He has his – moods,” Scott says now and he’s grinning but his cheeks are still pink.

It’s an odd sight, considering that not even Erica Reyes seemed to have been able to impress him yesterday. Stiles was beginning to think that Scott was the real badass around here, but right now, he looks definitely less than cool, more like the awkward teenager who’s fidgeting around nervously in front of his crush, cannot form coherent sentences and tries so obviously to no look at her rack, or her hips, that it’s almost funny to watch. He’s keeping his eyes glued to what must be Allison’s left ear now, and Stiles wants to smack him. It’s like he can literally feel Scott cringe on the inside, going, _stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Boy, this is painful to watch.

“But it would be really boring otherwise, right?” Scott finally offers and looks relieved to have gotten out a full sentence.

 “Yeah, but would it really...,” Allison says as she’s watching Derek take on four guys with baseball bats.

“When did you move here, Stiles?”

“Sunday,” Stiles says and jumps when Derek slams Jackson onto the asphalt.

“ _Sweet Jesus_...”

That was an awful crack, like nauseating, but the others aren’t even listening.

Allison has turned to face him, looking honestly interested, her big brown eyes like marbles, and Stiles thinks they make her look warm, somehow, and soft. Like velvet.

“From...?”

“Los Angeles,” Stiles says and Allison nods.

“I can imagine that all of this must be a bit overwhelming.”

“That’s an understatement,” Stiles mutters as he watches Jackson pick himself up from the ground, literally drenched in his own blood. It’s a miracle that he’s even standing right now, and, judging from the look on his face, that’s exactly what he’s thinking, too.

“Jackson just never knows when he’s had enough,” Allison says who has followed Stiles’ gaze, shaking her head because Jackson takes another run at Derek and Derek grips him by his shirt and slams him onto the ground once again in one smooth, elegant movement and Jackson hits the asphalt with another most unhealthy noise.

“Just look at his clothes, Lydia will be furious...”

“So, Allison,” Scott blurts out like it took him all this time to think of something to say, “How was your weekend?”

“Oh, really nice. Went to see a movie with Lydia and Jackson. The two weren’t talking but other than that... but you asked me that yesterday already. Remember? When you wanted to know what I had to eat and what to drink and whether I thought the seats were really comfortable, but not for longer than one and a half hours tops?”

Scott blushes more deeply than Stiles would have thought possible at this moment, his mouth agape like these were exactly the questions he’d meant to ask and Allison had just pulled them out of his head leaving behind a miserable emptiness.

“What kind of movie?” Stiles says quickly, thinking that Scott probably couldn’t be trusted to say anything during the next minute or two.

“New Tarantino,” Allison says, “I forget the name... er...”

Apparently Scott has recovered enough because he says, “Tarantino? Neat. I like Tarantino.”

“I think Tarantino is overrated,” Allison says.

“No, totally. Totally overrated, you’re right.”

She lifts her eyebrows at Scott and Stiles has to scrape together every last shred of self-control to not crack up at the stupid expression on Scott’s face.

He’s really sorry for him, too, because he knows Scott can’t help it. Stiles is exactly the same way around someone he has a serious crush on and with him, a crush is always serious. So yeah, he’s really feeling Scott’s pain right now.

“Uh, Lydia looks mad,” Allison says who just spotted the red-haired girl under a tree next to the big double doors. She’s leaning against the trunk watching the last of the fight and yes, even from here Stiles can see that she’s fuming.

“I better run. Calm her down before she can tear poor Jackson to shreds. Uhm. Those parts of him that are still whole, I mean. See you around Scott. Nice to meet you Stiles.” She waves at them and hurries away in Lydia’s direction.

“You’re drooling, man,” Stiles says with a grin and Scott quickly shuts his mouth. “And ‘poor Jackson’? I think I never met a bigger dickhead. And I’ve had to deal with a lot of dickheads...”

“Yeah, well... Allison’s Lydia best friend, so... I guess she has to say that about Jackson.”

“Or,” a sharp voice is saying behind them, “Argent’s just as dumb as the rest of them and she just doesn’t see it.”

Erica Reyes is chewing on a pink bubble gum. She’s wearing 6-inch-heels and a super short dress that pushes up her cleavage in a way that makes Stiles wonder how she can still breathe.

She’s really all legs and hair and boobs.

“Well, she must be, if she hasn’t caught on to your pathetic offers of puppy love yet, McCall.”

Scott flicks his eyes over to Erica, cheeks still red and apparently at a loss for words.

Erica snickers. “What, you thought it wasn’t obvious, even for a human like Allison Argent? God, McCall...”

She pulls a thread of pink gum out of her mouth and starts twirling it around her index finger.

“Stop that, that’s disgusting.”

Someone smacks Erica across the head and Stiles’ jaw drops.

How the _hell_ did he get here so fast, and why is he even here and – just – what the hell?

It’s Derek Hale.

Erica shoots him a peevish glance but stuffs the gum back into her mouth immediately.

Stiles stares at him with wide eyes.

He really didn’t see Derek walk across the school yard but apparently being super sneaky is a werewolf thing.

And how come Derek just fought off about fifty people with claws and fangs and still looks like he fell right out of a Vogue cover? There isn’t even so much as one drop of blood on his shirt. Apparently, Scott was right – none of the teenagers and occasional teacher here seem to be a real match for him.

Derek meets Stiles’ wide-eyed gaze and when he lifts his eyebrows, Stiles quickly averts his eyes. He tries to think of something to say but can’t come up with anything and in his mind he can see himself blush and staring ahead stupidly, exactly the same way Scott had done a minute ago.

See?

Stiles is exactly the same way and he doesn’t even have to be legitimately in love for it. Someone as handsome as this dude’s already doing the trick. Derek’s ridiculously good looks suffice to unsettle him deeply and then there’s the alpha-werewolf thing and all.

“Stiles, right?” Derek says and Stiles just nods his head up and down. “And you are Scott McCall.”

“Yup,” Scott says, very obviously considerably less impressed by Derek than Stiles which doesn’t go unnoticed because Derek says, “Looking for someone?”

Scott goes, “Mh? No,” and Stiles can’t suppress a smile. Of course Scott was looking over to where Allison and Lydia are talking to Jackson who is wiping the blood off his face. Just like the day before. Stiles wonders whether he always brings a set of spare clothes. He probably does. Jackson looks like a guy who pretends to be all spontaneous and chill but then really likes being prepared.

“How come Jackson looks worse than the others?” he blurts out, then blushes. It’s probably something blatantly obvious to werewolves and he’s just being stupid again.

“I told you, Jackson really wants to win,” Scott says, and then snorts, shaking his head. “Idiot.”

Derek flicks his eyes over to Scott with something like – surprise? – on his face.

“Stiles, we should really get going... first period is Econ again, and you do not want to be late for Finstock’s class... that reminds me, if you want to try out for the team, Coach said tomorrow would be good...”

Scott already turned around and Stiles can’t help but admire him for his nonchalance when everyone else is throwing Derek secret glances. Especially the younger kids seem to be having a hard time to even speak as long as he’s in hearing range.

“Bye,” Stiles says to Derek who responds, “Say hi to your dad. Erica, you should get going, too. No, don’t argue with me,” because she opened her mouth to respond, “You spent more time in detention than in school last week, so get a grip already. You’re being childish.”

Erica lets out a long drawn sigh but turns around and follows Scott and Stiles into the building but not without muttering complaints under her breath. Rather than turning the corner with them in the direction of the classrooms though, she vanishes in the ladies’ room and as soon as he hears the door swing shut behind her Stiles whispers, “I still don’t get the whole alpha thing, I mean – is Erica like his daughter, or something?”

Scott lets out a laugh. “No, Derek’s far too young for that, he must be like – 27 maybe? Don’t know... but pack is very much like family and to have an alpha in your pack – makes you stronger and alphas are natural providers, it’s in their blood to look out for their pack. Protect it, you know? They’d even, like, sacrifice their life for them. But then most packs are beta-packs – for obvious reasons.”

“Because there’s only two people in Derek’s pack and he’s the only alpha here?”

“Exactly.”

“So why doesn’t Derek pick more werewolves to be in his pack? I mean – didn’t you say Jackson is trying to get in or something?”

Scott nods. They stopped in front of the lockers and Scott is taking out his books for the day while trying to keep the junk in there from spilling onto the floor. Stiles’ locker is still empty, so he just stands there waiting, and looking expectantly at Scott.

“Jackson would just love to be the boss of this town, so he really wants to be alpha but, realistically... you know, getting into the Hale pack would also be a big step for him in terms of status, I guess... so I think he really tries to impress Derek.”

“How long has he been doing that?”

“Literally, always, from what I know...”

Stiles stares at him.

“Isn’t he sick of getting his nose busted almost every day?”

Scott shrugs.

“I told you. He’s a moron. And so are the others. Completely delusional if they think they can get Derek to acknowledge them this way. You wouldn’t believe the elaborate plans some people come up with...”

“So – how do you become a member of Derek’s pack?”

Scott shrugs again and slams his locker closed.

“No idea, really... Derek had been without a pack for years – except for his family, of course, I guess they’re his pack, too... you know, his mother and sisters and their kids. And then, last year, he picked Erica and Isaac and turned them and – it was kind of a scandal, really. Wolves are rarely bitten, most of them are born and no one understood why Derek would rather turn humans – and total outsiders, too, you should have seen Erica before – than pick one of the born wolves. And Derek Hale could have picked literally anyone, and not just from Beacon Hills. _Anyone_.”

“What’s wrong with someone who got bitten?”

Scott sighs.

“Nothing of course – people are just stupid. There’s a lot of prejudice against bitten wolves... like, they’re instincts aren’t as good and they’re not as strong and harder to teach and all... and looking at Erica and Isaac sometimes you might even think there’s some truth to that... there isn’t of course. It’s total bullshit.”

There is a pause when Allison Argent and Lydia Martin pass them by on their way to the Econ classroom and Allison smiles at Scott. Stiles watches Scott’s serious expression just fly out the window and get replaced with a goofy smile.

Still, he thinks, maybe Scott’s chances aren't so bad – Allison seems to like him and it’s like Erica said, she can’t really be oblivious to the fact that Scott has a huge crush on her.

Stiles can see Lydia give Scott an annoyed frown, as if wanting to say, _You’re not even good enough to look at her_. As if providing him with a reason for her condescending look, her eyes demonstratively drop down to his awful sweater, the saggy brown pants, then to his worn sneakers that are more grey than white even though someone clearly cleaned them carefully because they’re otherwise spotless.

Then, when the two girls have vanished into the crowd of students and Scott seems lost in thought and uneager to speak, Stiles lets his gaze wander and catches sight of a boy staring at him.

It’s the pale windiigo kid.

The one who had been staring at him the day before in the cafeteria.

Right now, he is looking so hard into Stiles’ eyes as if he were trying to talk to him telepathically.

“Er... Scott?”

“Mh?”

“What did you say it is that windiigos eat?”

“You don’t wanna know, man. Especially not before Biology. Come one, I think Finstock just locked his office and it sounded angrier than usual.”

The windiigo kid gives Stiles a gloomy look and vanishes into the classroom behind him.

 

 

 

Stiles thinks he already knew what windiigos ate – what they are, really – even before his first biology lesson with Mr. Harris who distributes a graphic of the human heart and then explains the parts to them as if he were talking about a four-star-menu.

And, needless to say, Mr. Harris is a windiigo.

Stiles already knows before he even flopped into his seat next to Scott at the back of the classroom. There is just this eerie similarity in looks and demeanor to the windiigo kid Stiles just saw out in the hall.

But he very much doubts the boy could be as creepy because then the period starts, and, with it, starts Mr. Harris' lecture on human anatomy and even though his voice is barely more than a soft whisper, it seems to reverberate off the plastic skeleton, and desks, the students themselves and off the very walls that are covered in blown-up sketches of inner organs.

“The heart is a muscle that pumps... _blood_ through the human body – if you listen closely enough you can hear its – _moist_ beat right now. _Mmmh...oist_. Such a _delicate_ sound... werewolf hearts... on the other hand, are bigger... and stronger and more – adaptable than human hearts and their sound is – less _moist_ and more – like taking a bite from an apple. Crunch-crunch... crunch-crunch... Listen closely, wolves – listen to the difference...”

Biology is soon turning out to be the creepiest class on Stiles’ schedule – and he’d had a teacher back in L.A. who would constantly unbutton her sweat-drenched blouse in front of students. Stiles is evidently not the only one who is feeling that way. The whole class, even Jackson and Lydia are making a point of staring down at their notes and trying hard not to meet Mr. Harris’ gaze, not even when he calls their names to answer a question.

“Who can tell me the name of _this_ part...,” he says with this thin voice of his that so much fits his pale exterior. Stiles is wondering whether all windiigos are translucent when Mr. Harris says, slowly, “Stilinski....” and Stiles jerks his head up, so fast that he can hear something click in his neck and he blushes.

“Yes?”

And he meets Mr. Harris’ gaze.

Big mistake, of course, and he doesn’t need Scott kicking him in the shin under the table to know it.

“The new kid... your dad is- the sheriff of course. Let’s see how _much_ you know about the difference between human and werewolf physiognomy...”

_Nothing_ , Stiles wants to yell. _Diddly-squat_.

But he just shifts in his seat uncomfortably, waiting for the question to hit him.

“When a werewolf assumes his beta-form... what happens to the _heart_ throughout the process?”

Stiles can’t find it in him to avert his eyes.

“I – don’t know.”

“When the chest _transforms_ and _widens_ , the werewolf heart pushes out a _third_ ventricle to be able to – deal with the additional amount of blood... that is needed to supply the growing muscle mass in the whole body and – _ensure_ an instantaneous shift... It’s the most – _powerful_ organ known to us today, _more_ powerful than the lung of a nymph or the jaw muscles of a ghoul. A true – _miracle_ , if you will...”

A soft and very disgusting smile is playing around his lips as if he were talking about his favorite pet and describing the special sauce he intends to put over its deep-fried little body at the end of the day and a shudder runs through the room. Stiles thinks he can see Scott swallow out of the corner of his eyes. Behind Mr. Harris’ back, Jackson who is sitting next to Lydia, has scrunched up his nose, clearly repulsed by his words.

“And,” Mr. Harris continues, “How much blood does a – _male_ werewolf body contain... on average in comparison to a human male adult. Stilinski?”

“No idea, Sir,” Stiles mutters and wonders whether it would be more or less unsettling to be interrogated by Count Dracula himself right now.

“Didn’t deem it... _necessary_ to borrow last week’s notes from McCall, mh...” Mr. Harris whispers and screws his index finger in Scott’s direction.

“S-sorry, Sir,” Stiles mumbles, heart pounding in his chest, uncomfortably aware of the fact that Mr. Harris can probably hear its ‘deliciously _moist_ beat,’ let alone all the werewolves in the room. He can see Allison throw him a pitiful look from behind Mr. Harris’ back and mouthing a number that is probably the correct answer but, lacking the werewolf super hearing, Stiles has no fucking clue what she’s trying to say.

“On a second thought, _don’t_ borrow McCall’s notes, if you ever – _intend_ to learn anything -,” Mr. Harris starts anew but stops dead when Stiles’ open biology book flutters off the table and lands with a rustle on the ground in front of his feet. Stiles is staring at Mr. Harris who flicks his eyes to the floor and then up to Stiles’ face. All the other heads turn to look at him in surprise, probably thinking that Stiles just chucked the book at their teacher. Or wiped it off the table with an accidental jerk of his arm.

But whatever just happened – _he_ definitely didn’t touch it.

“Class... dismissed,” Mr. Harris says in his low whisper, still staring a hole into Stiles’ head as if he very much wished to crack his skull open and take a closer look at his brain.

“Class dismissed,” Allison mocks a minute later, imitating Mr. Harris’ breathy whisper. “You ok, Stiles?”

“Yeah, thanks... Do all windiigos look like vampires?” Stiles mutters and throws a nervous look over his shoulder and indeed. Harris is standing in front of his classroom and if Stiles didn’t know any better he’d say that he is following them with his eyes.

Can probably hear them, too.

“Somehow – yeah, they do,” Scott says and Allison gives Stiles an empathic smile. “But it was pretty daring to throw your book at his feet...”

“I didn’t touch it,” Stiles says immediately and Scott nods. “He really didn’t. I saw it.”

“I saw it, too,” Lydia says who is walking next to Allison now. “Very strange.”

And she gives Stiles a long, scrutinizing look.

They stop in front of the Chemistry classroom.

“Maybe someone came to my rescue?” Stiles says, shrugging.

They all frown at him and Scott doesn’t even look confused at the fact that both Allison and Lydia are talking to them right now. His eyes are set on Stiles’ face in something like – worry?

“There’s werewolves and windiigos and banshees and ghouls and whatnot... doesn’t any of you guys have, like, psychic powers to move objects and stuff?”

There is a pause during which the others look at him in silence.

Then Allison says, carefully, “There’s only – _one_ kind of – of _creature_ that _might_ be able to move objects without touching them or, well, _screaming_ at them the way a banshee would, I think...”

“What, Harry Potter?” Stiles says in the attempt to crack a joke but then again – for all he knew, wizards could be real, too, and, gosh, how cool would that be, on top of all the craziness going on around here?

“No,” Lydia is saying slowly now. She is still eyeballing Stiles like she’s finally taking a closer look at him for the first time.

“But a spark might.”

 

 

 

Stiles is throwing water into his face and taking deep breaths. Maybe he does need a few more days to get used to – everything.

Mr. Harris certainly freaked him out, but then again, it was good to see that he’s not the only one. Every kid in his class seems to hate the weird way he says _moist.heart.beat_ , accentuating every syllable with a period dot in-between. And Scott reassured him that every beta werewolf is stronger than a windiigo, really, but that Mr. Harris is just exceptionally creepy and mean and they all deemed it wisest not to mess with him. In fact, according to Scott, even the other teachers seemed to avoid him and Mr. Harris usually considered their nervous looks and anxious faces with a satisfied smirk.

Stiles wipes his face with a paper towel, looks at himself in the mirror and then jumps a few feet into the air. Lurking in the corner behind him is the dark-haired, skinny windiigo boy and Stiles pivots on his heel.

Oh great, he thinks.

Another one of those.

He tries to calm down, then decides it’s no use and says, “Why do you keep staring at me like that?,” his voice definitely coming out a lot more raspy and high-pitched than he’d meant to.

“S-sorry,” the boy mutters and lets his gaze drop to the tiled floor instantly.

Stiles takes a deep breath, then thinks that, maybe, the kid just can’t help it.

“A-are you – hungry?” he says but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he realizes that that was probably the single most stupid and insulting thing he ever said to anyone.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really-”

“It’s okay,” the boy says quickly, lifting his dark eyes up to look at him again. “Most people think we’ll just go ahead and eat their brains out if they make a wrong move. You’re new here, it’s okay for you to ask. And most people don’t ask, they just – assume...”

“Well, Mr. Harris,” Stiles starts but the boy shakes his head and lets out a snort that’s somehow, oddly, _shrill_ and very inhuman, like he has four nostrils instead of two – Stiles really doesn’t dare to look right now – and that makes the hair on Stiles’ neck stick up.

“Mr. Harris is a jerk. It’s because of people like him that – that people like me are not really accepted anywhere. Not even around here.”

“Sorry?” Stiles tries. “Er... I actually have Chemistry right now, so...”

“Wait,” the boy says. “What’s your name?”

“Stiles Stilinski. Junior year.”

“I’m Corey Pearson. Freshman. I should be in History right now, but then I smelled you come in here.”

_Smelled_ him?

That must be the second creepiest thing anyone ever said to him, right after the stuff Mr. Harris just did.

Stiles nods, not sure what to say – _Er, cool, yeah totally?_ – and Corey extends his right arm.

Damnit.

Just as expected.

Up close, Corey really looks nice and pretty harmless but Stiles can’t shake the feeling of discomfort at the prospect of taking his hand.

He’d really, really prefer not to.

“It’s ok,” the boy says, smiling half-heartedly and Stiles feels a wave of empathy wash over him. He can’t imagine what it must feel like to be shunned and bullied and avoided just because of what you were born to be. Ok, maybe a little bit – it’s like he can still hear his classmates chant _Bilinski, Bilinski, boy or girl, he isn’t picky_ , and did he mention that he really hates Coach Finstock accidentally calling him that name, too?

So he takes Corey’s hand and – it happens instantly.

He looks up just in time to see Corey drop two rows of thin, sharp canines out of his jaw and transform his mouth into something that looks a lot like the gigantic plant-thing into which Boba Fett is thrown in _Star Wars_ and definitely not like a human mouth anymore. As if that weren’t enough, his pupils seem to roll back into his head to leave his eyes clear and milky white. Needless to say, within an instant, Corey looks like something that dropped right out of a horror movie and into a Beacon Hills High bathroom.

Stiles pulls his hand back at light speed, lets out a yell of horror and almost face plants onto the tiles in his attempt to get out of there as fast as humanly possible.

“No, wait! Stiles! I really need to tell you s-”

But the door has already swung closed behind him and Stiles is hurrying down the hallway, back to the classroom.

Jesus Christ, so that’s what a shifted windiigo looks like?

Stiles is pretty certain that he could have gone his whole life without knowing that.

 

 

 

 

“He wouldn’t have eaten you, I swear – at the utmost, he’d just have chewed on your arms for a while. Windiigos are said to be really picky, everyone knows they prefer hearts to-”

“ _Scott_ ,” Stiles hisses to cut him short, “could you please, _please_ cut it out already?!”

Hours later, Stiles still refuses to recall the scene in the bathroom and even though Scott assured him during Chemistry – once again, their teacher failed to show up – that not much could have happened to him over and over again and that, sometimes, windiigos just like lurking in bathrooms or broom closets to scare other students shitless for no reason whatsoever, Stiles isn’t fully convinced.

Corey looked pretty deadly to him and, as a matter of fact, so does Mr. Harris.

Oh God.... it only occurred to him that Mr. Harris probably has the same shifted face, the same canines and white eyeballs, reading to suck poor humans empty whenever no one is looking. In a futile attempt to calm Stiles down, Scott had explained to him how exactly windiigos take in food to illustrate why everything Stiles had described to him didn’t fit the picture.

“He was probably just nervous – used to happen to me too. Every time I got agitated, I accidentally shifted.”

Stiles is shaking his head again when someone slaps his shoulder and he jumps at least a foot into the air.

They’re standing out in the hallways, so someone tapping him on the shoulder or just bumping into him wasn’t a completely unlikely scenario but – Stiles is just tense right now, okay?

Scott rolls his eyes.

“Danny, can’t you see that this isn’t a good time?”

The guy called Danny smirks. He is tall and has broad shoulders and Stiles recognizes him as the guy who’s usually sitting next to Jackson.

“Stiles, right?”

Stiles nods yes and Danny extends his arm – not for Stiles to shake it though. Rather, he is fanning out what looks like a dozen photographs for Stiles to examine and says, “Five dollars the set.”

“Not interested,” Scott says right away but Stiles picks up one of the photos and turns it around in his hand, his heart beating more slowly again now. He’s taking a closer look at the picture.

It shows a guy in a very familiar leather jacket reaching for a milk carton in what appears to be an aisle in a grocery store.

“Is that – is that _Derek Hale_?”

Danny snatches the photo out of Stiles’ hands and replaces it with another one in which Derek is exceptionally handsome, even more than usual, wearing a black t-shirt, turning his head to the left and staring gloomily at something in the distance.

“Did he know you took this photo of him?”

“Not your taste? Ok, then – one of _these_ maybe?”

He digs into the pockets of his jacket and comes up with another stack, this time polaroids. Stiles takes a look at them while Scott is rolling his eyes, and shifting from one foot to the other impatiently.

It’s Derek again, this time in front of the school. Derek glowing his red eyes. Derek wolfed-out. Derek raising his claws.

Derek picking up Jackson, about to slam him down onto the ground hard.

“Hey, this one’s not bad,” Scott is saying now, frowning, and Danny nods.

“Yeah, they’re all from this morning’s fight – these four are the last ones, so... better decide quickly. 10 dollars for all of them.”

Stiles looks at him, not entirely sure if he’s joking or not.

Danny, obviously misinterpreting Stiles’ hesitation, says, “Or rather one of the girls?”

“Girls?”

“Allison? Or Lydia?”

He’s eyeballing Stiles as if asking, _what’s your deal?_

“I have _this_ classic of Lydia Martin. It was taken last year but still a big seller.”

He holds a photo up in front of Stiles’ face. It shows Lydia in a light yellow dress, clutching a pink rose and smiling vaguely into the camera in front of a comic book blue sky.

“Is Lydia ok with this?” Stiles says, frowning.

“Well, she sold it to me,” Danny shrugs, “so...” And, looking up into Stiles’ face, “No? Not a Lydia fan? Alright then. You know what? You can keep this because you’re new here – special treat.”

He nods at the photo of Derek that is still in Stiles’ hands and Stiles opens his mouth to protest but Danny quickly says, “And maybe one of Erica to go with it? 3 dollars each.”

He raises his right hand and shows Stiles the stack that is labelled ‘Erica Reyes, 6”x9”’

God, the guy must have a whole archive in there.

“You’re such a creep, Danny,” Erica says who must have heard her name and immediately came strutting across the hallway and over up to them like the creepy and dangerous girl she seems to be. She is leaning onto Stiles’ shoulder which does not particularly help him relax right now. Also, she’s sort of tall and heavy because she's all muscle, Stiles can just feel it. He stands there stock-still, letting Erica use him as a human walking cane. Well, what else would he be doing.

Erica, for her part, tries to snatch the stack of photos of herself out of Danny’s hand but Danny quickly shoves them back into his pocket.

“I’m not _taking_ the photos. I’m just _selling_ them,” he says, smirking at Erica.

“Either way. Creep!,” and she takes the weight off of Stiles’ shoulder – good thing because his feet were starting to hurt and, man, he _really_ needs to start working out, “No girl would want that, so you better watch out. You might just get mugged and lose your fancy little collection.”

“Well, Lydia happens to be one of my best clients,” Danny says, grinning from ear to ear, “She buys every new photo I take of her so – I beg to differ.”

“Tss... whatever. Not surprised at the queen of narcissists. But if I catch you distributing these photos of me in a bra again, I’ll punch your stupid human face into a pulp...”

Danny snorts. He turns around to face her fully now, looks her up and down for a moment.

“First of all, I don’t distribute, Erica, I sell. Secondly – try and put on a smile once in a while, will you? That would really help the business. Seriously, I sold more photos of _Jackson_ last week than I did of you.”

Erica stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Wha- really?”

“Well, maybe if you were a little more outgoing... I happen to know a guy who’d pay fifty for a photo of you smiling.”

“I am outgoing,” Erica says immediately.

“Well, if you look at some of these though,” the stack of Erica polaroids is in his hands again, and while this dude is apparently human, Stiles can’t shake the thought that he somehow knows a few magic tricks, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. People only like ‘hot mess’ if you can also show your softer side, you know...”

Danny eyeballs the photo on top and shakes his head in dismay.

“Let me see.” Erica tries to jerk them out of his hands again but Danny is quicker.

“10 dollars the set – just because you want to see them so badly.” He gives her a wide grin.

“That’s outrageous! Total rip-off!”

“Really Erica? About your own photos?”

Erica harrumphs and sticks her hand into her leather jacket. Stiles can hear the clutter of keys as she rummages around in it for a few moments. Then her hand reappears clutching a crumbled twenty-dollar-bill that she shoves into Danny’s face.

“Give me back 10.”

Danny is stuffing the photos back into his pocket.

“Sorry, I don’t carry any change around.”

Erica narrows her eyes at him.

“Ok, fine! I take two sets.”

She drops the bill into Danny’s left palm. He counts four photos into her outstretched hand and Erica glares at them.

“What? A set means two? You’re such a cutthroat, Danny...”

They watch Erica dart off huffing and puffing and cursing under her breath. Danny looks down at the bill, then puts it into his pocket, a wide grin on his face.

“Tss... amateur...”

 

 

“This guy is secretly taking photos of Derek Hale? Suicidal much?”

Last period is over and Scott and Stiles join the stream of students that’s slowly making its way out of the school and into the afternoon sun. Stiles is still staring at the photo Danny gave him, at Derek’s high cheekbones, his strong arms and broad shoulders.

“Well, you don’t strike me as someone who just _hates_ to have gotten his hands on a photo of Derek.”

“What?! That’s not-”

“Alright, alright. He basically _forced_ you to take it. So just put it away already,” Scott says, grinning at him and Stiles refuses – _refuses_ to blush.

Danny did shove it into his hands and it would be rude to throw away a gift, right?

“Danny Mahealani is a genius when it comes to all things money. I think he must be running a pretty good business selling the photos, and for a human, yeah – it’s pretty damn daring to sneak up on Derek Hale, too, if not to say impossible. I don’t know where Danny gets them but he does, and new ones every week. His famous Derek-Hale-topless collection is a classic... probably risked his neck assembling it, too.”

“I’m starting to think everyone at this school is just...bat-shit crazy...,” Stiles mutters. He takes out one of his school books and slides the photo in-between the pages, completely lost in thought like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing.

“Are there photos of you as well?”

“Yeah,” Scott barks out a laugh, “And you should hear how he’s trying to sell them. _‘Any Scott McCalls anyone? Fancy the homeless chic_ ’?”

Stiles snorts.

Homeless chic – it’s actually a quite fitting caption for Scott’s sense of fashion.

“I very much doubt he’s sold even a single one, yet.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that...”

“Mh? What – what do you mean?” Scott says immediately, almost as fast as Erica before.

“Well... Allison is smiling at you a lot, isn’t she?”

“You think?”

“Yeah and it’s like Erica said – she would be a total idiot to not get how much you like her...”

Scott runs his hand through his wild curls. “I’m not being very subtle, am I...”

Stiles slaps his shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s the problem, dude. Just ask her out...”

Scott’s face relaxes into a goofy grin and Stiles lets out a deep sigh wanting to add, _Just lose the hideous sweater_. But Scott wouldn’t hear a word he’s saying anyway. Stiles has known him for only two days now but long enough to be sure that Scott is far gone right now, probably imagining something wild and daring. Like Allison holding his hand. Stiles is pretty certain that if he turned Scott’s bag upside down right now, at least one photo of her would flurry to the ground.

“Stiles? Stiles!!” someone is yelling from somewhere behind them and Stiles grabs Scott’s arm and quickly yanks him through the big double doors and out into the sunlight.

“Huh? What?”

“That’s Corey... I really don’t want session two of the windiigo freak show right now.”

Scott frowns but lets Stiles drag him through the crowd.

“That’s pretty hurtful, you know that, right? He really can’t help it.”

They stop by the bicycle rack and Stiles looks down to his sneakers, embarrassed.

“Yeah, I know... sorry.”

“It’s alright, man, I know this is all new to you. Just – give him a chance to explain when you’re ready. Okay? It can really hurt to have something like that bottled up inside and not getting a chance to apologize. Believe me, I would know.”

Stiles nods his head up and down and wonders when exactly he’ll really be ready.

But Scott is right.

He should get a grip.

This was only day two and something tells him that a windiigo shifting in front of him doesn’t rank too high on the Beacon Hills scale of bizarre.


	2. A Game at Lacrosse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...the next couple of days in Beacon Hills. Stiles tries to come to terms with the idea of wendiigos, he tries to wrap his head around the stuff Derek Hale said to Scott, and, most importantly - he tries out for the lacrosse team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: The revelation that Stiles is a spark is NOT part of this chapter!! It's long & true to my style of painfully slow slow-build, so if you read purely for suspense, don't waste your time  
> If you enjoy parody & a postmodern dissipation of plot & subversion of readerly expectation -- enjoy :)
> 
> General info:  
> There's a pre-slash scene in there (sterek), it's toward the end; you can jump ahead; the next chapter will be all about spark-stiles & a lot shorter; if you have any other recommendations - let me know in the comment section; if you're just going to tell me that I suck? Don't bother, I already know; I write for the fun, to expand, grow (so appreciate constructive criticism) & a little bit to mess with my readers as well, but I don't have any illusions as to the quality; if you're looking for awesome, riveting & beautiful writing, look elsewhere (and start with Standinginanicedress; she's a genius)

When Stiles gets up the next morning, his head is still spinning.

It takes him ten full minutes to convince himself that what he’d seen during the past two days had actually been real.

He’s standing in the shower, letting the hot water run down his body while he’s talking to himself, trying to sort out the chaos in his head, repeating to himself everything he heard about werewolves and then everything he observed about his new friend, Scott, and about this guy called Derek – and, despite the scalding hot water, just remembering this dude’s freakish red eyes quite frankly sends cold shivers down Stiles’ spine.

Pushing thoughts about all the other supernatural creatures aside because, really, there’s only so much a man can take at 7 in the morning.

He turns off the water when his dad’s fists hit the bathroom door – apparently Stiles didn’t hear him before – and a worried voice asks whether he’s alright.

Letting scalding hot water run down your skin for thirty minutes is not the solution.

He hops out of the shower and, wrapping himself in a towel, walks over to the sink. It’s only when he lifts his head, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth, and looks at the outline of his own face in the steamed up mirror that he realizes that half his head is still covered in shampoo foam.

Ugh, great.

Where’s your freaking brain, Stiles?

So, back in the shower it is, if only to hold his head under the comfortably hot beam for another minute.

 

 

“So... day three, mh?”

His dad places a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and the delicious smell alone is enough for Stiles to feel fully awake, finally.

Still, an unsocial “Mh” is all he can offer in terms of a response. He just remembered the wendiigo kid, Corey.

And that wendiigos exist.

And what wendiigos are.

And what they eat.

And what they freaking look like when they shift.

Yes, he’s awake, definitely awake now.

“Uh...,” and he clears his throat. “Dad?”

“Fried eggs and shrimp. Dig in. And there’s more.” His dad shoves a plate into his face that Stiles grabs and puts down in front of him.

Stiles frowns at what is clearly another instance of misplaced seafood – shrimp for breakfast?

Seriously?

But then shakes his head, no, not important now.

“Dad? So...”

His dad lifts his eyebrows at him to indicate that he’s listening.

“So – wendiigos...”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!”

His dad lets out a sigh and rolls his eyes to the ceiling and Stiles – is befuddled, to say the least.

“Wh-what?”

“Give them a break already. They’re just regular people like you and me.”

“Ahem-”

“It’s not like anyone has been eaten, like, in _years_ -”

“Someone – what? S-someone’s been eaten--?”

“And you’ll be nice and polite and – and not bully anyone-”

“I never said I-”

“But never talk to them either, okay? Just so we’re absolutely clear here.”

Stiles is staring at his father who’s flailing his arms in a very Stilinski-ish move, spilling coffee and shrimps onto the tiles.

“Wh-what?”

“Keep away from them. No talking, not even eye contact. That’s probably best.”

“But-“

“No, end of discussion, period.” The sheriff takes a deep sigh. “Okay, where was I... right.” And he puts down his coffee mug and picks the newspaper up from the counter. “Gotta run, son.”

Then, with a look at his plate: “Gonna finish this in the car.”

And a moment later he’s out the door, plate and all.

And Stiles, he’s just sitting there.

Staring at the door, blinking, asking himself what the hell just happened.

He’s still staring at the kitchen door when his dad is starting his squad car outside. A second later the display of Stiles’ cellphone lights up with a new message.

Stiles picks it up and drags his finger across the display.

It’s a Whatsapp message from his dad who’s wishing him a nice day in school.

Stiles puts his phone down again, and lets his eyes wander to his plate. Then, slowly, almost carefully, he dips his fork into the pile of eggs and shrimp and starts eating, thinking that yes.

Yes, he might have to consider this.

He might.

Stiles has apparently moved to a town full of crazypeople, yes, but he might have to consider the fact that his dad is the craziest of them all.

 

 

But of course he isn’t.

He isn’t because there’s still this dude called Derek Hale.

He’s already there when Stiles pulls into the school parking lot. That is, he tries to pull in, but then has to leave his Jeep parked at the side of the road because he cannot get past the roaring crowd that has gathered, this time not in front of the building, but further away from the entrance doors, toward the main street. At least not without running over some poor, unconscious kid.

Then again – when Stiles slams the door of his Jeep shut and starts walking over to the building, he thinks that running over a werewolf might probably end up hurting his Jeep more than he, Stiles, could hurt them. Really, the way Derek flings them around and tears into their bodies with his claws - and then these kids, yes? They get back up and dust themselves off and dive right back into the fight.

How could Stiles’ crappy old Jeep do anything at all to them.

And Derek.

Man.

This dude, just...

Holy shit.

Stiles has walked over to a short brick wall on which it says BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL in huge letters and he’s watching the fight with an open mouth. He’s far enough away to be safe – no one can throw _that_ far, not even Derek Hale – yet close enough to make out the fur in Dereks face, the sweat stains on his green shirt.

His eyes – Stiles can’t help it, he shivers when they blink in his direction and they’re redder than blood, they’re burning in their deep-set sockets below dark eyebrows and Stiles knows that he won’t get used to this.

Just – just look at this guy, this – monster.

It’s insane, that’s what it is.

It’s also pretty awesome, yes, and Stiles can feel himself being torn between peeing-his-pants-scared and sitting-in-a-rollercoaster-excited. And he’s just standing by, he’s not even actively involved in the whole hassle.

Which is better.

He probably wouldn’t survive it, frail and skinny human that he is.

“Hey, fly trap.”

It takes him several seconds to realize that he’s being addressed and when he does he blushes – and quickly shuts his mouth. He knows that he tends to just stand there, frozen and mouth agape whenever he’s focused or surprised and that it makes him look stupid.

People have told him, yes.

Repeatedly.

He buries his hands in his pockets and grumbles, “Mind your own business,” but it comes out faint and shaky rather than defiant, the way he’d meant to sound.

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’m just teasing you. Gosh, people just can’t stand a joke...”

It’s Erica and she slaps Stiles’ shoulder playfully.

Of course, since Erica is a werewolf even a light slap of her hand is really painful.

So Stiles whines and jumps a little and blushes more deeply.

“Ouch, damnit. What are you, made of steel?”

Erica’s mouth curls into a smirk.

“I’m part of the Hale pack, honey,” she chirps, and she’d sound arrogant and pretentious if Scott hadn’t explained to Stiles how having an alpha makes werewolves even stronger.

More powerful.

So, as it is, Erica sounds arrogant and intimidating. She tips a blood-red fingernail to Stiles’ forehead and winks at him, and Stiles suddenly gets the weird idea that Erica dresses to match Derek’s looks – the color of her lips and nail polish matching her alpha’s red eyes, her black dress, heels and leather jacket matching Derek’s dark and brooding appearance.

Before he can pursue this train of thought, however, Stiles is joined by Scott – finally.

He’d started wondering – had started looking for Scott’s messy curls, or for a hint of his ugly sweater amid the flailing mass of teenagers.

But, judging from the indignant look Scott is throwing at Derek now, Stiles thinks that his new friend hasn’t changed in essentials one bit.

He still thinks the hassle about the Beacon Hills alpha is ridiculous and trying to steal his power from him?

Pathetic.

“Leave him alone, Erica,” he’s now saying, and he gives Stiles a pat on the shoulder – a careful and gentle one, as Stiles knows – and nods hello to him.

“Ugh, we were _just talking_ ,” Erica retorts, rolling her eyes. “You guys are no fun... _this_ is no fun.”

She lets her eyes wander across the school yard, an expression of dismay on her face.

“I hate this dump...”

And she struts off, in the direction of the building, not even throwing a look back at her alpha who’s, once again, the only one standing now, chest heaving, droplets of blood on his shirt.

“I think someone managed to get him today,” Stiles says and he shudders when he sees Derek’s wolfish features melt back into his human face.

God, freakish.

And absolutely fucking incredible.

“Nah, not really,” Scott says, but he’s frowning. “But seems like he hit harder than usual. That’s not his own blood on his shirt. He seems – pissed, today. I don’t know.”

“Oh.... that’s – that’s not good. Is it?”

A shrug from Scott.

“Well, Derek’s usually pissed, so....”

“Huh?”

Stiles turns to him, surprised.

“He seemed kinda nice before.”

“Well – he isn’t.”

Almost twenty feet away from them, Derek Hale raises his head, eyes not glowing anymore and Stiles swallows. He gets what Scott is talking about, even in his human form, Derek looks – he looks mean today.

Gloomy.

But on his first day in Beacon Hills, Stiles saw that scowl dissolve into a polite – okay, maybe not a smile, but at least a perfectly civil expression. Neutral, kinda.

Nonchalant, rather than scary.

But now – and with blood on his shirt, no less.

And it’s not helping that he’s moving now, and in their direction, too.

Derek Hale is stepping out of the circle of bodies strewn around him, some of which are clearly not moving, and starting towards the main street, the tree – and the BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL sign next to which Stiles and Scott are standing.

He’s moving swiftly and smoothly, and Stiles is reminded of a panther, rather than a wolf.

“I think – he heard us,” he says with a whisper, unable to un-glue his eyes from the approaching figure.

“Probably,” Scott says with a shrug.

Then Derek is already before them and Stiles – all the words seem to drain out of his brain the moment Derek’s hazel eyes meet his.

But, okay, you can’t really blame him.

The guy is the oddest mixture of scary and handsome – repulsive and attractive.

“Can we help you?”

Once again, Stiles cannot help but admire Scott’s perfect nonchalance in the face of, well.

The town alpha.

And a monster.

Okay, Scott is a werewolf, too, yes, but – _everyone_ seems to be afraid of Derek Hale.

Every sane creature, apparently.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Stiles can see his fellow students picking themselves up slowly, faces distorted with pain, and limping away, metaphorical tail between their legs, throwing anxious glances back over their shoulders as if afraid that the alpha might wolf out and drag them back with his teeth.

And he just might because, yeah, Scott was right. Derek looks definitely pissed, more so than yesterday.

“Where did Erica go,” he barks at Scott who only raises his eyebrows at the tone, but doesn’t answer. Not unkindly, no, but on principle. As if he could only be bothered to respond if Derek said _please_ and _thank you_.

Derek seems to grow angrier by the second, so Stiles decides to open his mouth.

“Th—that way,” he stutters and points in the direction of the school building.

Derek’s eyes meet his – and Stiles’ heart seems to drop into his stomach while heat shoots up into his cheeks. Then the alpha harrumphs and turns away, and before Stiles even knows what happened, he’s already halfway there, by the big double doors.

Stiles can see kids jump out of the way left and right as Derek waltzes toward the school building. Despite the policy of no strangers inside the school, no one seems to want to stop him either.

“What do you think has gotten into him,” Stiles mutters under his breath, hoping that Derek’s crazy super hearing will not pick up Stiles’ words and make him pissed-off even more.

Make him spin around and turn on the fragile human.

“I think he’s tired,” Scott says and Stiles looks at him, surprised.

That’s an answer he didn’t expect.

Strangely enough, he can see Derek pause before stepping inside, almost as if he’d heard what Scott had said.

Almost as if he was baffled, too.

“Tired?” Stiles repeats.

Derek’s still there, on the upper step, immobile.

“Yeah,” and there’s a light frown on Scott’s face again. “Like I told you... it’s the same fucking routine, day in and day out. If you ask me, an alpha is just a glorified punch-ball. I don’t know... I’d probably shoot myself.”

“But – he’s so...,” and Stiles considers Derek’s figure, but then changes his mind. “Yeah... I guess I get what you mean.”

Scott lets out a sigh.

“Come on, let’s go in...”

Stiles nods and Scott pats him on the shoulder.

When Stiles looks over to the double doors again, Derek’s gone.

But there’s a familiar face in one of the second floor windows, the one right above the bicycle rack and Stiles shudders.

It’s a white face, so white it’s almost glowing, and even though it’s far away, Stiles just knows, its pitch-black, predatory eyes are set on him.

 

 

He’s sworn to himself to avoid Corey, the wendiigo kid – at least for today.

At least until he’s figured out how to deal with his overwhelming urge to scream and run whenever he just thinks about Corey’s shifted face.

Last night, for the first time in years, Stiles had been scared in the dark.

He’d lain in bed, blanket pulled up to the tip of his nose, Corey’s face glued into his brain like it dropped right out of a horror movie and – no. No, he doesn’t have to deal with this. Not when everything else is still so new to him and, quite frankly, also unsettling.

So the thing is - he’s pretty sure, Corey really just means to apologize. Scott’s explanation – that he’d accidentally shifted and is mortified because of it – seems plausible, but Stiles isn’t ready to face the kid yet, not when his literal existence is giving Stiles nightmares.

Yes, he does feel like an asshole because of it.

Still.

“I know what you mean, man,” Scott is saying, not for the first time. They’re in the hallway and Scott is piling books from his locker onto his right arm.

“Wendiigos, they just – they go under your skin.”

“Yeah, but – why is that? I mean, with Harris, I get it, the guy’s just....” And Stiles shudders. He can see Scott swallow and nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s Harris. But wendiigos in general. I think,” and he rubs his head, “it’s because of the way they can, like, tune into the sound and smell of human bodies.”

“But werewolves can, too, right?” Stiles says and he’s proud of himself when Scott nods again. He feels like he’s finally catching on.

Sorting out the supernatural chaos around him.

“Yeah, but the difference is that, for werewolves, humans aren’t prey. We don’t eat humans, you know?”

“But – wendiigos do,” Stiles says and he feels like something cold is running down his spine.

“Well, yeah,” Scott admits, “Human organs. Especially the heart.”

Stiles makes a sound like “uah,” and shakes himself. There’s an image in his head of Corey looming over a cracked-open chest, eyes milky-white and devoid of pupils, his pale, delicate face smeared with brownish-red gore from a half-eaten human heart he’s holding in his hand.

But then, that’s not what it would look like, right?

Stiles shudders again when, in his head, the whole image shifts and now, Corey doesn’t have a human mouth anymore, but the freakish, toothed hole that Stiles glimpsed in the boys’ bathroom on the second floor yesterday.

Holy hell.

“No wonder no one likes them, even though werewolves are stronger,” he finally mutters.

“Well... yeah...,” Scott says slowly, and he’s considering Stiles, frowning.

“I get that that’s creepy, man, and I really think it’s, like, human instinct to dislike wendiigos. Like, you instinctively know they’re smelling you and listening for your heartbeat because, deep down, they wanna eat you – but you gotta get over that, Stiles. You really have to. I don’t know the kid, alright, but – like I said, he’d never have hurt you. There’s like – a Code in Beacon Hills and all supernatural creatures grow up with it. Otherwise we couldn’t live with each other, right? Plus, Corey’s too small and weak – even if we weren’t in Beacon Hills, that’s not how they’d usually feed. He’d pick a much smaller target. Wendiigos are fast, but they aren’t very strong.”

“Then – then how do they get to- you know what? Never mind.”

They started walking in the direction of the English classroom and Stiles is cautiously looking left and right. He really gets what Scott is saying, but somehow, every new little detail he learns about wendiigos just makes him more prone to running away screaming the next time he’ll come face to face with one.

Derek Hale is creepy, yes, but he’s also fascinating, somehow and he doesn’t look like an abomination. His shifted form looks more like – like a hot dude with a Halloween mask.

Corey’s shifted form looks like what you would lock away in something called House of Horrors.

Or, you know.

Hell.

“Man, Derek looks kinda pissed today,” a voice is saying from the right.

Two girls step up to them, one with strawberry blonde braids, one with warm, brown curls and together they watch Derek Hale emerge from the principal’s office at the other end of the hallway.

“Can he hear us from all the way over there?” Stiles addresses Lydia Martin and Allison Argent because Scott seems, once again, magically muted in the presence of Allison. His mouth is open and he’s alternating between staring at her and staring down at his sneakers, humiliated.

Stiles can see her give him a sweet smile and thinks that if Scott weren’t so damn intimidated and handicapped by his crush, he’d probably already be married to this girl. It’s just obvious they’re totally gone on each other, only Scott doesn’t get it.

“Yeah, well,” Lydia is slowly saying now. She’s curling one of her braids around her index finger, head tilted to the right as if Derek were an abstract painting that she’s trying to make sense of.

Which – not that far off, right?

“He might be able to hear us. Not too much is known about the exactoids of alpha powers because alphas rather keep to themselves what they can and can’t do.”

Stiles is frowning. He watches Derek Hale disappear around the corner.

“Exactoids?”

This of course excites a sigh and an eye-roll from Lydia, but it’s Allison who answers, kindly, “The hard facts about a supernatural creature that you can measure, you know, like – the parameters of their hearing and visual range, or how many G.e.e.e.z.e.s. their punch can have etc.”

“Cheeses?”

“G.e.e.e.z.e.s. Short for Greatly Eminent and Extremely Expressive Zoophagous Energy Score, introduced in 1934 by Elizabeth Argent Cooper.”

“Let’s go,” Lydia interrupts her briskly. “Just open one of your textbooks, Stiles. We’re not walking encyclopedias.”

Before Stiles can even begin to comprehend that Lydia just rudely shut him down, even though she was clearly the one who spoke to him first, the door to the principal’s office opens again and Gerard Argent steps out, a grin on his face that makes him look oddly dangerous which is of course in stark contrast to the blue and orange Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing. The hairs on his legs are white and so is the hair on his head. He must be about eighty.

It’s not a pretty sight, even though-

“Does he work out?” Stiles blurts, completely forgetting that Gerard Argent’s grand-daughter is still standing right next to him.

Allison’s cheeks redden faintly.

“Better hurry,” she mutters, and she takes Lydia’s hand and starts pulling her away, apparently in the attempt to vanish out of her grand-father’s line of sight as quickly as possible.

“Well – that sure is odd,” Stiles says, blinking, with a look at Allison’s and Lydia’s quickly retreating figures.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Gerard. He’s – he’s kinda creepy,” Scott says. He’s rubbing his head and eyes, almost like Allison cast a spell over him that is just starting to fade away.

“But,” and Stiles lowers his voice, just in case Gerard Argent’s grin is so wolfish because it matches his werewolf powers as well, “he’s just an old dude in a Hawaiian shirt. He’s – he’s not a werewolf or anything, right? Because you said the Argents are all humans.”

“Yeah, but he has the tenth dan in Anything Goes Martial Arts – the Argents have a Dojo, you know?”

“An – anything goes...?”

“Yeah. You should see Allison’s dad, Chris Argent. He’s – he’s really,” and to Stiles’ surprise Scott swallows and looks uncomfortable.

“You mean he could take on a werewolf?”

“Hell yeah,” Scott mutters. “Ten werewolves probably...”

“Even an alpha?”

Another frown from Scott.

“Not sure. Fact is – there has never been a fight between Mr. Argent and Derek ‘cause there’s not really a reason for that, but – who knows how that would go. The Argents are really resourceful, you know? Everything’s allowed in Anything Goes Martial Arts....”

“Figured,” Stiles says. He considers asking Scott about particulars for a moment – then glimpses a pale face beneath a dark shock of hair approaching them and his head is suddenly empty.

Scott turns to him in surprise.

“What’s up?”

Right.

Werewolf senses.

He must have caught Stiles’ heart speed up.

“Come on, we better get going...,” Stiles mutters, and yes, he is ashamed of himself – but he will deal with that later.

Scott gives him a shake of the head, but follows.

“Stiles!”

Rather than stop, Stiles speeds up and they vanish in a group of people. Corey, who’s thin and not the tallest, has a hard time following because he’s one of these kids that no one makes room for and that everyone shoves around when the teachers aren’t looking.

Stiles is too busy with trying to get away to see that the other teenagers pay Corey next to no attention. They’re certainly not scared of him is the thing.

But then, they’re not the new kid at Beacon Hills High School either, right?

 

 

Scott is torn between amused and exasperated at Stiles’ elaborate plans to avoid Corey, the wendiigo kid during lunch. When Stiles asks him to sit outside, even though it started raining ten minutes ago, Scott sighs, but he nods and, despite himself, smiles.

“Stiles? There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”

A guy has stepped up to Stiles and Scott who are sitting on the window sill in the History classroom. It’s the dude who tried selling Stiles photos of Lydia and Erica the day before.

“Photo-guy,” Stiles says.

“Danny,” Danny says and he lifts his eyebrows at Stiles. Scott gives them both a wide smile.

“So, there’s a freshman waiting outside...”

Stiles immediately pales.

“Wendiigo?” he forces out and Danny nods.

“From the looks of it, yeah. Said he really needs to speak with you.”

“Tell him I’m not here.”

Danny glares at him and Scott goes, “Dude, he’s a wendiigo.”

“So?”

“He can _smell_ you’re in here.”

Stiles’ heart starts thumping loudly.

Right.

That.

“Er... o-okay, tell him – tell him, I can’t, right now.”

“Tell him yourself, I’m not a messenger pigeon,” Danny retorts. Then, lips widening into a grin, “but if you care for a picture of _Derek Hale_ feeding pigeons...” And suddenly a stack of photos is in his right hand. Stiles stares down at them, wondering what Derek Hale would look like feeding birds – or being kind to any animal, really – but Scott sighs and says, “Danny, we really don’t.”

“Okay, then.... I got new Allison Argents,” he says, voice lower now because Allison is on the other end of the room with Lydia and Jackson. They’re about to leave for lunch. Scott, who’d been throwing glances at her blushes and goes, “Er... r-really?”

“Thanks, but no,” Stiles says, feeling like it’s his turn now to protect his new friend. He can’t shake the feeling that Scott would spend everything he has with him within ten seconds if Danny shows him his collection of brand new Allison photos.

Danny who seems to think the same thing frowns at Stiles, but before he can say anything else, they can hear a loud, “Move, wendiigo-freak!,” then a bang and a squeak that make Stiles jump.

“I guess you don’t have to worry about Corey anymore,” says Scott and Stiles stares guiltily over to the door.

From where he’s sitting, he can’t really see out into the hallway, but it sounded a lot like Corey yelping and jumping hastily out of Jackson’s way.

“Do you think Jackson hit him?”

Scott shakes his head.

“Nah... just hit the lockers. Jackson’s a bully, but he’s all fangs, no spit.”

Stiles snorts.

“What?”

“Er – that’s what we say when someone is, you know – all barks, no pants,” Scott explains.

“Ladies?” Danny interrupts, waving a stack of photos in Scott’s face who carefully pushes his hand away and shakes his head again.

“No, thanks, Danny. Really.”

“Fine then. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Scott says not unkindly, and Danny turns away, sliding the stacks of photos back into the bottomless depths of his jacket pocket. Stiles can see that his eyes are already wandering around the room as if on the lookout for other potential customers. 

When they leave the classroom, the hallway is almost empty and for a moment there, Stiles thinks he escaped Corey. But as soon as they have rounded the corner, the pale boy literally jumps at him out of a supply closet on their right, going, “Stiles, wait!”

Stiles has his hand over his heart, almost sinking to the floor right then and there and Scott is shaking his head in exasperation.

“Man, that’s not cool,” he mutters, but Corey doesn’t seem to get that jumping at a guy who’s already scared of him is not really helping his cause. He’s right there in front of him now, invading Stiles’ private space, staring into his eyes with an earnest expression in his face.

“Stiles, listen to me-”

“ _Corey Pearson_ ,” a shrill voice behind them is saying and – Stiles would know it anywhere, even though he’s only heard it for the first time the day before. It’s thin, yet, somehow sharp and poisonous. Stiles’ heart jumps in surprise and Corey’s face grows a little paler. The boy takes a step back from Stiles, now looking anxiously at someone behind him.

When Stiles throws a glance over his shoulder – he’s not comfortable with turning his back to Corey – he can see Harris advancing towards them with quick steps. Since he doesn’t really want to have his back towards his creepy teacher either Stiles simply retreats towards the lockers – and Scott does the same.

Harris has stepped up to Corey and is eyeing him coldly.

“Would you please step into my office for a second.”

Stiles can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the poor kid who’s now trudging after Harris, shoulders slouching and even though they’re the same – the same _kind_ , Corey is visibly scared. He throws a last, anxious look back at Stiles as if trying to communicate with him telepathically. Then they vanish around the corner and Stiles lets out his breath.

He hadn’t even been aware that he was holding it.

“Wendiigos don’t eat each other, right?”

Scott shakes his head.

“No, but – you know. It’s still Harris. Detention with him is, like the _worst_. Poor kid...”

Yes, this time Stiles actually fully shares Scott’s sympathy and he decides that he really needs to man up. As soon as Corey’s out of Harris’ office, Stiles is going to talk to him and accept his apology. It’s the right thing to do and besides, he can’t be running away forever. And maybe, one day, wendiigos won’t scare the crap out of him anymore.

 

 

The next time Stiles is the one to spot Corey, not the other way around.

It 3 p.m., the sky is partially clouded and a surprisingly cool wind is making them shiver. Stiles is in front of the school with Scott after the last period and they’re talking about lacrosse when Stiles sees Corey’s skinny figure and pale face emerge from the building.

Right.

This is it.

This is Stiles Stilinski manning up, and doing the right thing even though it scares the living hell out of him.

Don’t believe it?

Ha, you just wait and see.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and Scott who was just saying, “Okay, I think you can try out for the team, but you have to be prepared,” suddenly stops and turns around.

“Ah, alright, there he is. See? I told you he’d be out last. Bet Harris kept him the whole afternoon. I wonder what he did to deserve that...”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Stiles says and then he shakes himself, and jumps up and down, almost like a boxer who’s about to step into the ring.

“Alright! Let’s do this.”

Scott is looking at him, amused smile on his face.

“Well – you gotta walk over to him, bro – he’s almost by the bicycle rack already. He’s got this awesome silver crossroad Rocketflare. Locks it every morning he gets here. Ha, the freak.”

Stiles is not sure he understands what Scott is saying, but his new friend does have a point, so he starts moving, even though his knees are shaking.

Behind him, Scott is cheering him on, shouting silly stuff like “You got it, man! Yeah!” and Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to grin, roll his eyes or blush at Scott’s goofiness.

When he reaches him, Corey is still bending down next to a silver bike that has the word ROCKETFLARE stretching in black letters across the down tube. He’s fumbling with a blue chain and, at a closer look, Stiles can see that the lock looks crushed – almost as if a huge monster fist had closed around it and just squeezed it flat, so the key wouldn’t fit in anymore.

Corey is pulling at the chain and lets out a frustrated sigh. When Stiles is close enough, his head snaps up and Stiles can see tears in his eyes.

His heart throbs with sympathy and that’s enough for him to overcome the last bit of fear, step up to Corey and open his mouth.

“Hi, Corey. Er... anything wrong?”

Corey’s dark eyes are staring directly into his and Stiles can’t help but shudder slightly – but he doesn’t look away.

Corey might be born a flesh-and-heart-eating monster, but right now, he’s just another kid who’s getting bullied at school and Stiles’ heart aches when he realizes he’d probably been piling onto the stress. He’s decided to listen to Scott and treat Corey like he were just a regular human.

Problem is that the way Corey’s staring at him intensely and without blinking or uttering even one word isn’t really helping.

“You – er – you need help with that?,” Stiles adds, clearing his throat. His courage is crumbling.

But then, thankfully, Corey finally breaks the lidless stare. He looks down at his sneakers and mumbles, “They won’t stop messing with my bike.”

“Who is?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Jackson.” And he bends down and holds up the lock for Stiles to see. “I can’t fit a key in there anymore and I don’t have werewolf strength. I can’t just break the chain.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, rubbing his forehead. “I see. I’m sure Scott could help with that.”

“Really?”

And they’re both looking over to where Scott has a big grin beneath his messy, brown curls. He can probably hear every word they’re saying, so Stiles takes that as a yes from his friend.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll ask him to come over. Er.... you – you wanted to speak with me?”

Corey who is kneeling down next to his bike again doesn’t look up.

“Mh, yeah but – nevermind.”

Then, slowly, “It’s – it’s not important... I guess.”

Stiles is frowning down at the boy now while Scott is making his way in their direction.

“But I’m sorry I shocked you – I didn’t mean to, really. Sometimes I can’t control the shift, I was just – agitated,” Corey says with a small voice and Stiles is completely confused.

So the kid had really meant to apologize.

But that wasn’t the only thing he’d wanted to tell Stiles and Stiles’ quick brain immediately connected Harris’ sudden appearance with Corey’s unwillingness to share anything else.

But – that doesn’t make any sense. Does it?

Why would Harris scare Corey into not talking to Stiles.

Maybe that was a wendiigo thing.

And maybe Stiles just needs to stop thinking about it.

Scott is there now, and before Corey can say anything, he has grabbed the chain and simply ripped it apart.

Stiles is staring down at Scott’s hands that look so human, but are freakishly strong and Corey gives him a shy smile.

“Thank you, Scott.”

“You’re Corey, right? Freshman year?”

Corey nods and Scott extends his hand.

Stiles freezes.

It was exactly this moment when Corey had shifted. Just when Stiles’ finger had touched his – but today, nothing happens.

They shake hands, and nothing happens.

At least – nothing that has anything to do with Corey.

While Stiles is still watching the interaction intently, a couple of things happen simultaneously – and Stiles?

He saw none of them coming.

Scott suddenly drops Corey’s hand and his eyes are glowing and he’s yelling, “Stiles, look out!!”

Corey takes a jump backwards and falls over his own bicycle.

And there’s quick steps, almost like something big galloping towards them.

Then, the fraction of a second later, Stiles is on the ground. His chest and hips and palms are aching from the sudden impact and he’s blinking at the dirt right in front of his eyes.

What the literal –

Apparently, Scott has grabbed his shoulders and thrown him down onto the ground, just in time for something big and fast to _not_ hit him.

Stiles stays there for another few second, completely immobile, listening to what sounds like a thunderstorm but is really two werewolves snarling and hitting each other not even six feet in front of him.

Then he picks himself up and scoots backwards, to where Corey is crouching between the bicycles and all of a sudden the wendiigo is Stiles’ smallest problem.

“What the frick-”

“Y-you okay?” Corey throws him a worried glance.

“Yeah,” says Stiles and looks at his dirt-smeared palms, “I think. What the hell is going on?”

Before Corey can answer, Scott hits the ground hard right in front of them. He’s wolfed out, his eyes bleeding yellow into amber, foam and spit on his fangs. He’s squatting there and even though he’s wearing trousers and a sweater, he couldn’t look any more unhuman.

“What the fuck Isaac?!,” Scott roars, not completely articulate because of his fangs, and now Stiles’ eyes dart over to the thing – the _guy_ – who apparently just attacked them, and yes, look at that.

It’s curly-hair.

Isaac.

Derek Hale’s other beta.

He’s bigger than Scott and his boyish features are wolfishly distorted, his eyes neon yellow and, if Stiles is not mistaken, the dude is grinning.

“You could have hurt Stiles, what the fuck, man?!”

“He was in the way,” Isaac retorts, smirk deepening.

“In the – what? What are you trying to do, Isaac?”

If Stiles weren’t so freaked out right now, he’d be cracking up. Scott’s confusion looks just so odd. His wild features are not made for that kind of a facial expression, but it’s just – _so_ Scott.

“Wait a second,” Scott starts, but Isaac has ducked down.

A moment later he is hurling himself at Scott and Scott just rolls out of the way, evading Isaac’s sharp claws.

“Stop it!” Scott snarls, but Isaac is already at it again, rushing at Scott, eerie grin still glued onto his face around his bared fangs.

Once again, Scott dodges his claws.

There’s leaves in his curls and dirt all over his clothes, but, considering Isaac’s ferocious attacks it’s a miracle that he’s not bloody all over yet.

“We should get a teacher,” Stiles mutters. He feels stupid just watching his friend about to be torn up by this madman, but Corey shakes his raven-black hair.

“No, I doubt they’d want to watch. They’ve like, work to do...”

“What?” Stiles is momentarily distracted. “No, I meant – to break up the fight.”

Corey looks at him, puzzled.

“Why would they want to break up the fight?”

“What? Are you bullshitting me?”

Stiles considers explaining to Corey how fighting is bad, how you can get expelled for beating someone up, how grown-ups would usually intervene, especially when kids are fighting at school – but he looks at Scott’s and Isaac’s glowing eyes, their claws and fangs and he just sighs and mutters, “Never mind.”

This is Beacon Hills after all.

Things are different here.

“Scott is fast,” Corey whispers with admiration as Scott evades Isaac a third time. “But Isaac seems dead-set on getting him.”

Yeah, so much is obvious.

The question is just – why?

Scott seems to be asking himself the same thing because he yells, “What have I ever done to you,” ducks down and darts away from the other werewolf, adding, “Derek?!”

Stiles blinks. He knows his jaw is drooping again, has been for the past minute, but really, how could he not be surprised and shocked out of his freaking mind – and what the hell does Derek Hale have to do with all of this?

He’s not even here.

Or – is he?

Stiles dares to lift his head a little. Craning his neck he lets his gaze wander, quickly scanning the rows of students who stopped to watch the fight – and really. There, leaning nonchalantly against the trunk of the peach tree next to the BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL sign is Derek Hale.

Leather jacket, high laced boots, sunglasses, deadpan.

He looks like a freakin’ mobster who’s checking whether the assassin he hired is doing his job.

When Derek pushes himself off the trunk and advances a few steps into the afternoon sunlight Stiles asks himself how on earth he could be scared of the frail and clearly shivering kid right next to him when there’s a freaking head-werewolf around who, quite frankly, looks a little insane right now, the way he’s watching his beta trying to tear Scott to shreds.

Stiles has understood enough about pack dynamics to know that Scott is right in assuming Derek told Isaac to do exactly what he’s doing right now.

If Derek didn’t approve then there’d be no way that he’d let Isaac hurl himself at anyone, especially not in his very presence.

“Derek, tell him to stop!,” Scott is roaring now, but Derek doesn’t even raise his eyebrows. He just keeps standing there, arms crossed in front of his chest, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, face unmoving.

“Come on, McCall,” Isaac snarls.

Stiles has trouble to even make out the words because of all the panting, and foaming, and fang-baring.

“You can’t dodge my claws forever.”

“Derek, show some mercy!,” someone is yelling now. “McCall can’t defend himself!”

It’s Jackson.

Stiles turns his head just quickly enough to catch Allison nudging Jackson in the ribs. She looks heavily uncomfortable, left fist pressed over her mouth. There’s worry in her warm, brown eyes which makes Stiles’ heart sink.

So this isn’t just play.

Something could happen to Scott.

“What is Jackson talking about?” Stiles mutters and Corey whispers back, “Jackson’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, but – why does he think Scott can’t defend himself? Er – you said he’s fast, right?”

As if to disprove Stiles, Scott leaps away from Isaac’s fangs, but this time, he isn’t quick enough. Stiles can see his sweater tear, can hear Allison shriek.

There’s _ohs_ and _ahs_ from the crowd.

“Whoo-hooo! Give up, McCall,” Jackson is yelling, “Everyone knows you’re a filthy omega!”

“Okay, THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Stiles almost hits the dirt again – he’d been leaning forward, both hands draped over the wheel of a bicycle that moved and then turned, making Stiles lose his balance. He quickly picks himself up from the ground, not even blushing about how awkward he’s being again and turns his head in all directions to make out the source of that voice.

To his surprise he quickly locates it next to Jackson.

It’s Scott’s crush, Allison Argent.

Her hands are still trembling, and it’s only now that Stiles realizes that it isn’t out of fear.

She’s angry.

 _Really_ angry, holy shit.

Corey seems to think the same because he says, “Uh oh...” and ducks down behind the bicycles again.

And he isn’t the only one.

To his utter surprise, Stiles can see the other students seek shelter behind trees or cars or quickly retreat towards the building. Soon, Derek Hale is the only one who’s still standing out in the open, completely unimpressed.

Isaac is facing Allison now who is walking up to where Scott is squatting on the ground and is panting and clutching his right hand over where Isaac struck him.

“Scott is hurt,” Stiles says and he’s craning his neck, moves around the wheel of the green bicycle in front of him.

“He’s fine, Stiles, come back here, for God’s sake!”

“What?”

But Corey is gesturing wildly for Stiles to scoot closer to him and Stiles, hesitantly, obeys.

“Why is everyone behaving like this? It’s just Allison.”

Corey is staring at him, wide-eyed, like he can’t believe Stiles just said that.

“I mean,” Stiles says in an attempt to explain himself, “not because she’s like – a girl. But because she’s – human and all. Like me. Just human.”

Before Corey can say anything, however, Stiles can hear Danny Mahealani’s voice, shouting, “Five bucks on Allison! Five bucks anyone? Five bucks on Allison! The odds, as always, one to two, that’s to steal! Do I hear three bucks on Isaac? Three bucks on Isaac, anyone?”

Stiles can’t see him, but he’s pretty sure Danny is collecting money from outstretched hands right now and letting the bills vanish in his big pockets, a satisfied smirk on his face.

“I can’t believe it – they’re striking wagers on who’s gonna win?” Stiles says, grimacing. “That’s fucking sick! Isaac’s gonna kill Allison, we – someone has to do something.”

“Keep your head down!,” Corey whisper-hisses, and when Stiles doesn’t move, the kid makes a small leap in his direction like a frog, screws his long, white fingers around Stiles’ right upper arm and pulls him down forcefully, with a lot more strength than Stiles would have thought possible.

Tsss.

Young wendiigos aren’t strong my ass.

“What the-” he starts complaining, but a mere moment later Stiles can hear them.

They’re _everywhere_.

Tiny daggers.

“Holy shit!” Stiles exclaims when one of them hits the bicycle wheel behind which Stiles has ducked down, and gets stuck in there, mere inches away from his nose.

It’s silver and looks like a big needle with a short black hilt on one end.

“What the – _holy_ shit!”

He can see both Scott and Isaac flat on their stomachs, claws clutched over their heads as if trying to protect themselves from being punctured by about fifty of Allison’s needles. Even Derek Hale has retreated behind the BEACON HILLS HIGH SCHOOL sign. Obviously he’s not too eager either to pull large needles out of his muscles later on.

Allison is standing in the center, and she’s moving her hands so quickly Stiles can barely see them.

“How the fuck does she even have so many in there? What the – how is this even _possible_?”

She can’t be human.

She just can’t.

“She’s not human,” Stiles breathes.

“No, she really is, believe me,” Corey says back.

“But – that’s not – how is that possible?!”

“That’s Anything Goes Martial Arts. It’s the Argent family tradition, and Allison’s, like – really good already.”

Hell, yeah.

Stiles can see that.

“What the hell is that supposed to be, Isaac Lahey,” Allison is shouting now.

She has halted her movements.

Stiles can see five shiny daggers in each of her hands, blinking in the occasional ray of sunlight on this cloudy afternoon in front of Beacon Hills High.

Isaac has leaped to all fours, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he’s already attacking.

Stiles holds his breath.

He wants to close his eyes, but he can’t.

Scott is on his feet as well, but Isaac has reached Allison before Scott can jump between them.

Allison makes a graceful pirouette, dodging Isaac’s claws and, when his back is towards her, she hurls the tiny daggers at him.

All of them find their goal.

Isaac howls and falls face forward into the dirt and now it’s Allison’s turn to jump at him.

“Scott hasn’t done anything to you,” she yells, hitting Isaac’s head with a round-house kick. He groans and crawls away from her, but she’s on him already, two larger daggers in her hands now.

“You’re lucky, I don’t have my bow right now, Isaac Lahey. Pestering someone who doesn’t want to fight is just low.”

Isaac jumps onto his feet, snarling. He’s quicker than Allison, and stronger, too, but she’s an incredible shot.

A moment later, the air is filled with a long, drawn howl and Stiles can see Isaac pinned to the ground, both daggers sticking out of his shoulders.

“Holy – oh, my God,” is all Stiles can gasp.

He can’t believe this is happening.

Apparently, neither can Scott, but for different reasons. He’s just standing there, staring at Allison and rubbing his head as if unsure what to do.

“How does it feel, McCall?” Stiles can hear Jackson shout. “You must be happy that someone defends omegas like you!”

Stiles already knows that Jackson should not have said that even before Allison spins around, taking a dagger from God-knows-where in a swift and elegant movement and hurling it at Jackson who yelps in a very unmanly way, and leaps out of the way just in time.

Stiles can hear a low thud as the dagger hits the tree trunk, exactly where Jackson’s face had been mere moments ago. There’s a few evil snickers from the crowd.

“You shut your mouth, Jackson Whittemore,” Allison hisses. “Or I’ll pin your smug face to that tree over there.”

Stiles can’t really see Jackson’s expression – he’s too far away – but he’s pretty sure the dude is majorly pissed and humiliated. At the same time, it seems like he doesn’t want to anger Allison further, so nothing else can be heard from him.

The werewolf who caused the whole mess, Isaac Lahey has crawled away whimpering.

Derek Hale is nowhere to be seen.

There’s only a dissipating crowd – Danny who is giving out money to the people who bet on Allison – and then Allison herself.

And Scott.

Stiles has jumped up and is walking toward his friend with swift steps when he can hear him say, “Youwangautme?”

“What?” Allison answers and Stiles immediately stops short in his tracks.

He, of course, understood exactly what Scott had meant to say.

“Do you – do you want to go out with me?”

Allison who’s bending down to pick up her daggers from the ground looks up at Scott and there’s the sweetest dimpled smile on her face.

“I would love that.”

And she straightens her back again, sliding a handful of dagger-needles into the pockets of her dress which Stiles finds super-weird.

No way in hell would he have guessed that that’s what Allison’s got in there.

A lipstick and small mirror maybe, if you had asked him.

Anywhere else in the world that might have been correct.

But not here.

This is Beacon Hills, where gorgeous brunettes specialize in Anything Goes Martial Arts and have sharp and pointy weapons folded into their cute dresses.

The only town where a guy watches a girl puncture a werewolf and deems this the perfect moment to ask her out on a date.

Stiles is smiling and nodding to himself.

Yeah, he’s starting to really like Beacon Hills.

Scott looks extremely relieved.

Then a stoner grin appears on his face, making him look even goofier than usual.

“O-okay. Cool. Pick you up Friday at five?”

“Make it seven. My dad won’t let me out of practice early.”

“O-okay. Cool. Seven.”

“We’ll take my car. Just come over to the dojo.”

“Cool. Okay. See you then.”

“And tomorrow at school of course.”

“O-okay. Cool.”

Stiles can’t help it, he buries his face in his palm thinking that if Scott says either ‘cool’ or ‘okay’ one more time he’s going to have to hit him, werewolf or no werewolf.

Allison, however, doesn’t seem to mind because she continues smiling sweetly at Scott.

Then Scott jerks his head up and down – Stiles assumes this is supposed to mean ‘goodbye’ – and walks over to where Stiles is standing. He’s moving his feet and hands like a robot and looking all in all so awkward and clumsy that it’s hard to imagine that this is the same guy who, just five minutes earlier, had leaped fifteen feet from a standing position, and moved around so fast that you could hardly follow him with your eyes.

“Congrats, man,” Stiles is saying and they high-five – because they’re sixteen and they have all the right in the world to be douchy.

“You’re okay?”

They both look down at Scott’s shredded sweater.

“You’re bleeding, man.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Healed within seconds, Isaac’s claws didn’t really go deep. I just gotta ask my mom to fix the sweater.”

And he sighs.

“She’s gonna be mad.”

“Don’t,” Stiles quickly says, eyeing the vomit-yellow abomination. “I mean – just throw it out, it looks really bad.”

“You mean torn?”

“Yeah, that too.”

And they grin at each other.

“It’s my style.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Danny says my photos sell.”

“To Allison, I’m a hundred percent certain. All of them, probably.”

Scott’s grin widens.

“I wouldn’t mind. But – where’s Corey?”

“Huh?”

Stiles turns around, searching the area around the bicycle rack with his eyes.

Corey is gone and so is his silver bike.

“Mh... guess he went home.”

“Probably. But – see? He just meant to apologize. Everything’s alright now...”

Scott drapes his hand over Stiles’ shoulders.

But Stiles – he isn’t so sure.

He doesn’t say so though.

No need to talk about Corey, or about why exactly Isaac suddenly decided to hurl himself at Scott. Or rather, why Derek Hale – the _alpha_ Derek Hale – decided to tell his beta to hurl himself at Scott.

Or, what an omega is – why it’s such an insult, and why Jackson keeps calling Scott that.

Scott is in a high mood and he deserves every second of it.

 

 

[Wednesday evening]

When Stiles gets home, he feels dizzy.

He makes himself a sandwich, and then, chewing listlessly, flips through a comic on his smartphone.

When he’s done he dumps the crumbs into the trash can, puts his plate into the dishwasher and then just stands there.

He could flop onto his bed and continue reading, but he really should do his homework. He’s actually willing – _eager_ even, to do his homework. It’s daunting on the one hand because most of the time he has no clue what the teachers are talking about since he knows so little about stuff like werewolf anatomy, an early medieval epic poem called the “Nymphensong” or the wendiigo-conspiracy of 1865, but Stiles is so curious about all these things that he doesn’t really know where to start.

Okay, so that’s settled then.

Homework it is.

Who’d have thought, right?

After two hours or so, Stiles is back down in the kitchen to get himself a glass of water.

He reaches up to one of the top shelves above the sink because that’s where his dad keeps the everyday household articles like plates and cups while the lower shelves hold stuff like the Christmas wine cooler, a large wooden wok and a ceramic fondue set from which most parts are missing except for the bowl and two forks, a yellow one and a green one.

Just when Stiles is on his toes and he’s already touching one of the glasses with his fingers, his whole world tilts.

There’s the sound of shattering glass, and then Stiles is just blinking and asking himself why his shoulder and head hurt.

He’s stretched out on the tiles without the faintest clue of how he got there, so for half a minute he’s just lying there, trying to figure it out while getting the room to stop spinning.

He must have – yes, he must have collapsed.

It’s not like this hasn’t happened before.

Come to think of it, he’s been sort of shaky all day. What was it that his grandma used to say?

A growth spurt, or something like that.

Makes you dizzy and faint.

Because he’s a teenager and all.

Still.

That’s sort of embarrassing.

Stiles is sitting up slowly, groaning and feeling his head.

No blood.

Well, that’s good right?

He just hopes his dad isn’t too attached to his cups and glasses because Stiles is surrounded by the shards of at least two of them, what used to be a purple cup with a ridiculous looking merman on it as well as a glass with a red-and-green pattern of seashells and crabs.

Stiles picks himself up from the ground, then starts collecting the shards and throw them away. When he’s done he walks into the living room to fetch the vacuum.

Walks back into the kitchen, plugs the thing in and starts vacuuming the tiles.

Then stops.

The vacuum is still roaring, but Stiles is perfectly motionless.

For the umpteenth time this day he cannot believe his eyes.

There on the counter right next to the sink, filled to the brim with water, are a glass with green-and-red maritime pattern and a cup, and on the cup the cheerful figure of a merman with green tail, the sun above his head so yellow it seems to be pulsating off the smooth ceramic surface, like the purple background can barely hold it.

 

 

Stiles is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

The dizziness is gone, but he’s not sure whether he’s stable enough to get up just yet.

He didn’t take the glass or the cup upstairs – but he did go down to the kitchen twice within the last hour to check if they’re still there, or whether he just dreamed it all.

The thing is, he might have imagined the sound of shattering glass, yes, even though he distinctly remembers cutting his right index finger on one of the bigger, nastier shards and the cut, mind you, is still there, no longer leaking droplets of blood but still fresh and burning.

But even if this had been all in his head and he’d cut his finger elsewhere – Stiles is absolutely and a hundred percent certain that he did _not_ fill either the glass or the cup with water and then line them up next to the sink.

And why would he even do that?

He needed one cup, not two.

Stiles rubs his forehead and eyes with his palms.

Yes, the dizziness is gone, but it made room for an ample feeling of utter discomfort.

After another minute or so he’s had enough. He darts up and grabs his phone from the nightstand.

Since he’s too confused and tired to study he might as well call his dad.

And while he’s at it, he might as well pay him a visit, drive over to his workplace and take a look around.

Just get out of the house, if only for a while.

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles is walking across the parking lot of the sheriff station, a half written essay on the wendiigo-conspiracy of 1865 in his backpack. He’s pretty sure he can find someone who might be able to help him with it. The sheer number and odd names of the wendiigo underground organizations are baffling, but all of them are mentioned only in passing, and none of them are listed in either the index or in the appendix of important terms at the end of his history book.

Scott hadn’t been a great help either.

Five minutes into their phone conversation he’d realized that he’d accidentally written his essay on the wendiigo- _council_ of 1685 and Stiles ended up giving a panicking Scott a rough outline of the conspiracy and the ensuing war (the so-called ‘1865 Flesh-run’) that was concluded with an armistice and a ban of the hurtful term _(outlawed) imp_ for wendiigos, as well as addendum sixty-four to the Constitution of Sentients that stated clearly and concisely that heretofore _no one_ has the right to shoot wendiigos on sight and that killing a wendiigo will not be pursued by the community only under the condition that

1) either more than sixty percent of two or more of your limbs have been chewed up and thus permanently rendered unusable (this sub-section not applying to were-folk), or

2) one or more of your limbs have been severed from your body entirely and eaten.

Stiles enjoys talking to Scott, he says ‘whuuut’ and ‘ugh, gross’ in exactly the right moments, even though he should be used to the supernatural and its up- and downsides.

But he was not a great help with any of the parts of the essay that Stiles had originally called him about, so here he is now, hoping and simultaneously fearing that he might find a wendiigo working at his dad’s side – or simply someone who aced history at Beacon Hills High and knows the difference between A.R.G.S. and A.R.W.S.S. and A.R.R.R.G.L. – Stiles reckons that that would already be enough.

At a first glance, the Beacon Hills Sheriff Department looks like any other sheriff department in the country, people in uniforms, American flags, empty coffee mugs and piles of paperwork everywhere.

On a second glance though – alright, it’s still pretty regular looking.

But there’s a desk in the back office and at it Stiles can glimpse a lady who seems to be sorting letters. After about ten seconds, she looks left and right, then sneaks a cigarette out of her purse.

Then she lights it with a tiny flame from her nostrils and Stiles’ mouth drops open.

“Son! Good to have you here.”

“H-hi dad.”

Stiles manages a nervous smile and lets himself get pulled into a bear hug by his dad.

“Have you had dinner yet?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Good, I’d say we grab something, down at Betty’s and Imp, you know, the one on Ninth Street?”

“Er... okay.”

“You know that one?”

“Er... no.”

“Alright then, it’s settled. My shift ends in ten minutes. Come on back here, I just need to finish writing my report. You can sit with Parrish.”

Stiles nods and lets his dad guide him down the hallway.

Parrish is a nice guy, handsome and ripped like most people around here and Stiles knows instantly that he isn’t entirely human.

Maybe it’s the fact that, showing just barely below the rim of his sleeves, are blackened patches of skin that seem to move as Stiles stares down at them, almost as if Parrish’s body only disguised as human and really consisted of smoke and ash.

Or it could be the fact that when they shake hands, Parrish’s hot palm almost singes Stiles’ skin who draws his hand back with a yelp of surprise and pain.

Parrish smiles apologetically and says, “Sorry about that.”

Then he draws a chair for Stiles and proceeds to tap away at his keyboard while Stiles is left to consider the room.

He can see his dad through the window, his head hidden behind his computer screen.

There’s a couple of framed diplomas above Parrish’s desk, one from high school, another one from Beacon Hills Community College and one that says,

 

We proudly confirm that

_Jordan Ephisophelous Parrish Jr._

has been awarded the

FIRST DAN

in

Anything Goes

the high art of offense, defense and ambivalence as first practiced by

the eminent

Makwa Argent

 

signed

the Argent family

Gerard Argent

 

Below his name, Gerard Argent’s signature in black ink adorns the certificate.

“Is that the principal?”

Parrish looks up from his computer, then turns around to look at the wall behind him.

“Who? Oh that. Gerard Argent? Yeah, principal of Beacon Hills High.”

And, with a wide, toothy grin, “Dude’s insane.”

“Ehm,” Stiles goes and swallows. “Okay.”

The fact that people keep hinting that something’s up with the principal makes him uncomfortable.

Almost like a big black thundercloud hanging threateningly in the sky in the not-so-far-away future. Or, considering Gerard’s pale, hairy legs beneath his shorts and the shock of white hair on his head – a white thundercloud.

“You’re new to the supernatural. Is that correct, Stiles?” Parrish says sympathetically. He seems to be finished with whatever work he’d been doing because Stiles can hear the trademark whirl of his computer shutting down.

“Yes. Still a little – confused.”

Parrish nods, smiling.

“I get that. When I found out – I really thought I’d lost my mind. Seriously – craziest two weeks of my life.”

“When did you find out?”

Parrish gets up, rounds his desk and draws another chair from the table for himself and sits down next to Stiles. Up close, Stiles can see that Parrish is tan and his skin sort of looks – leathery.

Like he’s been out in the sun for a long time.

For a lifetime.

Or two.

It admittedly freaks Stiles out a little, but there’s a kind smile on his face when he says, “I found out just recently. Been living in Southern California all my life, but I moved here two years ago after I found out I’m a hellhound.”

Yeah, Stiles figured.

There’s an echo in his head of his dad going, _My deputy is a hellhound, for God’s sake._

Oh, and Stiles wants to ask.

So, so much.

But it’s probably impolite, like asking Ahab, _Er, excuse me, where did you lose that leg again?_

So he just pretends like – even though it’s killing him – it’s perfectly normal that someone, _anyone_ really, is a hellhound and says, “How did you find out you’re a hellhound?”

“The usual way.”

“The usual way?”

“Someone set me on fire.”

And, seeing Stiles shocked expression, Parrish shrugs and adds, “Happens.”

What?

No?

No, it doesn’t.

“That – strikes me as a bit extreme.”

Another shrug from Parrish.

“Well, there’s guys out hunting supernatural creatures and they quickly get a whiff of what you are, even though you don’t know yourself. You know? So that’s a kinda test.”

“So – it was a hunter? A hunter set you on fire?”

And Parrish nods, then shows Stiles his teeth again when he smiles almost menacingly, “Didn’t get me though. But I gathered enough from the incident to know that there’s more to this world than I assumed. So, after some research, I came here.”

Stiles nods because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Parrish chuckles.

“You look like you’ll die if you can’t ask any questions. So, shoot.”

Stiles blinks – then inhales – and goes, “What – what is a hellhound if you don’t mind and what – what do hellhounds eat and do you have any natural enemies and how many are there and does it have anything to do with hell at all? Like, a real hell.”

Parrish laughs and says, “Okay, let me see. All I know is what I learned from the Argent family’s Bestiary and Adrian was also a great help.”

“Adrian?” Stiles frowns because Parrish said the name in a way that implied Stiles should know who he was talking about.

“Harris. Adrian Harris. He teaches biology at Beacon Hills High. Knows a lot about all kinds of supernatural creatures, especially the rarer ones like hellhounds, unicorns, or sparks, or creatures that live, say, so deep down in the seas and oceans that we hardly ever see them – like leviathans. He actually specializes in sparks. Has written a couple of really important books, too.”

A million questions are raging around in Stiles’ head.

After a moment he decides to say, “But why is he teaching high school then?”

He can’t help but shudder at the thought of Mr. Harris researching the supernatural like others would rare ingredients for exotic food.

“Why not? As good as any other job, I’d say,” Parrish answers. “And there’s two sparks in Beacon Hills alone, and I know that they both agreed talking to Harris and contributing to his research about twenty years ago when he first came here. Don’t know what happened since. You don’t often get a look at them, you know?”

Then, no longer smiling, “And quite frankly, they sort of freak me out, sparks. Most powerful creatures, you know? And quite a riddle. No one really knows what they do – just that they exude power. Anyone close can feel that.”

Stiles nods.

“Yeah, heard about that already.”

Even though he cannot really say that old Mrs. Allen exudes power. But that must be because he’s human and lacks the supernatural senses.

“So... what else did you want to know. Right. We eat,” and a grin appears on his face again that makes Stiles blush, “regular food. So don’t worry. Even though the most delicious thing for us is unicorn meat.”

Stiles’ mouth is open again.

“U- uni-”

“Yeah. There’s not many hellhounds, couple of hundred all around the world and we pretty much decimated the unicorn population almost to the last.”

And he sighs.

“That’s why there’s specific laws forbidding us to even approach them. I’ve never even seen one, so I can’t really tell you any more about that.”

Stiles’ head is spinning again, and a voice inside is shouting at him, _mental note, mental note!!_

He needs to research all of that as soon as he gets home.

“And concerning what hellhounds do, what we are – we’re creatures of fire. We’re humanoid phenixes.”

Because Stiles looks confused, Parrish adds, “Species of phoenixes, but you know – technically, phoenixes are birds. Hellhounds are a subspecies – we’re more human. Looking human, you know. Thinking human, too, I’d say, but not always. Dragons are in this class, too.”

“D-dragons?”

“Yeah, but they’re not like you’d think. And you better avoid them. Met one once.”

Parrish looks uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“Avoid in the future.”

Stiles nods.

Okay, avoid dragons.

Whatever the hell they are, just avoid.

“So, all phenicides – creatures somehow related to the common phenix, you know – consist, to a significant part, of fire. We’re kind of related to it. It’s the element that gives us life. So the term hellhound – if you ask me, I think it’s pretty offensive. Missionaries gave it to our kind before they proceeded to massacre us most effectively in the sixteenth century.”

“Wow, that.... that’s bad.”

Parrish nods.

“That’s genocide.”

“So, it’s not really saying anything about us, it’s just fear of the unknown – and we don’t really have a name for ourselves, simply because it never made sense to delineate what we are from what everything else is. And the name _hellhound_ is already a justification for killing us off – an explanation for why we shouldn’t exist, you know?”

Stiles nods again.

“So we’re trying to reform the name and call us _firebreathers_ instead. But so far, we haven’t been very successful. Mostly because there’s only three of our kind in Beacon Hills – which is already a lot, considering that we usually have, like, territories – and all the others out there have a bunch of other problems and they think that talking about what we are called is being nit-picky. Oh, well....”

Parrish sighs, then throws a look at the clock on the opposite wall.

“Sorry to get you down, Stiles.”

Stiles shakes his head vigorously.

“Oh no. No, no. Don’t worry. I’m really just trying to memorize what you told me. It’s – wow. I’m a little overwhelmed at school, to tell you the truth.”

Parrish nods.

“I get that. Being the new kid can be tough – it really always is. I remember what it was like to be new around here...”

Parrish lets out a soft chuckle and shakes his head.

“When I first started here, two gnomes from accounting pranked me, like, on a daily basis.”

“Pranked you?”

“Yeah... the department’s got these torches to deal with nymph-incidents, you know, and they must have grabbed one when Gina forgot to lock the supply closet again. Anyway, they set my hair on fire about three times a day during my first week here. I mean, you want to start off on the right foot with your colleagues but after a while, it’s just kind of annoying.”

Stiles finds himself nodding again, open-mouthed.

“Yeah. No, sure.”

“So man, that was a drag. But anyway – Liz had a serious word with them and they eventually stopped. She’s a firebreather, too. One of our secretaries.”

Stiles nods slowly.

“Does she have short brown hair? About fifty, likes smoking-”

“-at the workplace even though she’s not supposed to? Yeah, that’s her. Have you met her?”

“Er. Not really.”

So the woman in the back office is a hell- a _firebreather_.

Okay, that explains the flames that were dancing from her nostrils.

It’s starting to make more and more sense.

Just when Stiles opens his mouth to ask what else Parrish can do with fire, his dad appears in the door.

“Done for today. Sorry for the wait, son. Let’s grab something to eat. Jordan, you want to join us?”

But Parrish shakes his head.

“Thanks, John, but I have a training lesson scheduled in about an hour. I really can’t miss that. But maybe some other time.”

 

 

Stiles pulls into the parking lot behind his dad’s squad car. It’s half empty.

It says _Betty’s and ~~Imp~~_ in large neon letters above the door.

Stiles frowns up to the words.

“They do realize that half their name is crossed out, right?”

His dad smiles and pats Stiles’ shoulder.

“You still got a lot to learn, son.”

A big dude with cropped brown hair seats them in a booth close to the bar and Stiles knows right away that he’s a werewolf.

He can’t really tell why he knows.

He just does.

Maybe likes to think the reason is that he’s really starting to get used to the idea of werewolves and supernatural creatures in general – after a while you can probably tell instinctively who is what, even if you’re human.

Right?

Stiles scans the menu their werewolf-waiter brings them.

“What do these symbols mean?”

He puts his menu on the table and points to the tiny stars and circles and squares behind some of the dishes. Betty’s surprise lasagna has as many as fifteen of them.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart, kid? There’s a legend in the back.”

And indeed, the last double page explains about two hundred different symbols. There’s the regular ones such as _vegetarian_ (a tiny bell pepper) or _contains lactose_ (the small letter L).

But there is also ... , _can be eaten on nights_ (a waxing moon) and ... (a waning moon).

There’s a whole bunch of symbols that are only herbs and flowers, meaning things like _contains oregano_ , contains _purple foxglove_ , _contains lavender_ , _contains poppy seed_ or _contains wolfsbane_.

“Wolfsbane?”

Stiles frowns down at the word.

“Poisonous for werewolves.”

“Huh? Why would you put wolfsbane into anything then? I mean – it’s not like wolfsbane pie is a thing...”

His dad flips over three pages in Stiles’ menu and taps at the word _Spirits_. There, in alphabetical order, it says Alcoholic Beverages, then a bunch of words Stiles has never heard of before and sound disgusting such as _Pufferfish Beverages_ , until, at the bottom of the page, it says _Wolfsbane Beverages_.

“But that’s,” Stiles starts, but then goes, “Aaah. Okay. So regular alcohol does nothing for werewolves.”

“Diddly-squat.”

“Okay. So just like methanol is poisonous for humans, wolfsbane is poisonous for werewolves.”

The sheriff nods.

“And when a werewolf wants to get drunk – he just downs a, er.... _Lunar Freak_.”

Stiles frowns again.

“Tastes like a Sex at the Beach.”

“Mh-mh. Okay. But – couldn’t you just add wolfsbane to a regular beer or cocktail?”

The sheriff shrugs,

“Yeah, sure. Just tastes disgusting. Wolfsbane is really odd stuff. If a werewolf wants the taste of beer, they just order one. You don’t really need the effect of the alcohol in it for it to be good, right? And I hear adding wolfsbane to bear just spoils it. Makes it taste rotten, you know.”

Stiles nods.

“Okay, so that’s wolfsbane. But,” and he flips back to the back of the menu, “What about lavender and basil?”

His dad blinks as if not really getting the question.

“Some people just don’t like the taste.”

Stiles ends up ordering a cheeseburger and fries (NOT for nymphoids, vegetarians, vegans and creatures with lactose or gluten intolerance). His dad gets a large plate of fried shrimp with a choice of cocktail sauces certified as edible for humans, weres _and_ wendiigos which he swears are delicious if Stiles were only willing to try them.

Stiles takes one look at the greyish, gooey stuff that his dad is dipping his shrimp into, suppresses the urge to gag and shakes his head no.

His burger looks awesome though.

At first.

Stiles eats a bunch of fries before picking it up – and then putting it back down.

“Everything alright?” his dad says around the shrimp in his mouth.

“Er, yeah. Perfect.”

Just a little nauseous from the smelly wendiigo dip. It’s heart and liver and brain and something else, Stiles can’t quite discern and he wonder how his dad can get it down without vomiting.

He sure feels like it.

He takes a bite from his burger nonetheless and it tastes fantastic.

Only, Stiles feels highly uncomfortable and it doesn’t really go away either. When they walk out to their respective cars, he feels a little shaky.

“You look mighty pale, son. You sure, you’re alright?”

“A little sick,” Stiles admits. “Haven’t been feeling so good all day. I think I caught a stomach bug or something.”

Or food poisoning which of course he doesn’t say out loud.

But a kitchen that prepares brain haché, and pies with dirt in them (for whatever species Stiles has yet to find out) next to regular hamburger patties?

Come on.

Impossible not to mix up stuff accidentally.

Stiles assures his dad that he’s still good to drive, but he’s not quite sure if he’s telling the truth or not because when he opens the driver’s door of his Jeep, he gets an image in his head that makes him gag.

It’s of a solid concrete wall, grey and stained and it feels like – it feels horrible.

It feels like death.

 

 

Stiles doesn’t throw up, but he really wants to.

It’s the most peculiar feeling.

Usually, when you’re sick, you don’t necessarily enjoy emptying out your stomach. Now, however, Stiles is lying on his bed in the dark of his room and thinks it might not be the worst idea. He just wants to get rid of what he ate.

Point is, he’s feeling horrible and overwhelmed and upset and the fact that his whole room still smells like brand-new, cheap furniture is not really helping.

It’s toxic.

Every time he inhales, he gets a new whiff of the plastic-scented air and it’s suffocating him, so he jumps up, walks over to the window, pulls back the curtains and pushes it open.

He’s staring out into the pitch-black night illuminated by the yellowish-orange radiance of the street-lights and inhales the spicy night air.

It smells like grass and bark and leaves and flower petals, bees and flies and bugs and the moist fur of squirrels and rabbits and he can feel himself calm down more and more with each breath.

Stiles just stands there for more than a whole hour, hands glued to the window sill, taking in how different and beautiful the world is at night.

 

 

Still, the first image in his mind when he come to the next morning – a Thursday morning – is that of a stained concrete wall.

 

 

 

 

Stiles is nervous and excited when he jumps out of his Jeep that morning. Coach Finstock agreed for Stiles to try out for the lacrosse team that afternoon even though, technically, the team’s already complete.

But since Stiles changed schools in the middle of the year, Finstock made an exception and – maybe he isn’t so bad after all. He’s still choleric and all, yes, but it seems like when he’s not yelling, he can be a decent person.

He still calls Stiles Bilinski though.

When Stiles walks over to the school building, he’s still a little nauseous.

Hopefully, he’ll manage to keep his food in, at least during practice. Then he only has to make it through Friday, before he has a whole weekend to recover from all the craziness. Maybe hang out with Scott.

Now that he has an actual buddy, a whole world of fun is opening up to Stiles.

So, screw the nausea and dizziness. He’s determined to enjoy his first weekend at Beacon Hills.

A couple of minutes later, however, something odd happens – odd, even for the standards of a deeply supernatural town like Beacon Hills where the trees and streets are positively fizzing with magic – and Stiles isn’t so sure anymore whether he’s going to have a normal rest of the week and weekend with Scott.

And the other students – they’re already talking about it.

From the bits of gossip Stiles can pick up while pushing through the crowd that is gathered in front of the school building just like every morning, something unusual is happening.

Derek Hale seems to have taken an interest in Scott McCall.

When Stiles first hears Scott’s name, he thinks he must have misheard.

Maybe they said _Flott_ or _Odd_ or _Scot_.

Then, however, a tall senior whispers to her brunette friend, _He’s on the lacrosse team_ , and Stiles turns around, looks where everyone else is looking.

Scott has deposited his crappy bike at the bicycle rack – Stiles thinks he can smell the rust all the way over the school yard, it’s really bad – and then he’s rubbing his head of messy brown curls and starting in the direction of the entrance, towards the school, the crowd, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is staring at him.

He’s wearing a ratty grey sweater today that looks like it’s not been washed in washing machine but laundered by immersing it in the clear water of a brook and then beating it with rocks.

Stiles wants to step out of the crowd of students to greet him and tell him his plan about how to finish their essays on the wendiigo-conspiracy – Stiles thinks that if they flatter her enough, they could get Lydia Martin to help them and the paper is only due next Monday, so they basically still have plenty of time – but then the crowd moves and Stiles suddenly feels like he’s trapped in the stomach of a large animal.

Everyone around him takes a step forward and Stiles gets at least three elbows in his ribs, and he’s pushed forward and hits the muscular back of a huge senior who doesn’t even notice, and even though he can’t see anything, he suddenly realizes what that means.

Derek Hale is here.

The alpha of Beacon Hills has arrived to drop off his pack and single-handedly knock out about forty percent of the students like he does every day before school starts and Stiles can’t believe he forgot about that odd ritual for even a moment.

He’d been so absorbed with the lingering feeling of nausea in his stomach that he hasn’t yet spent a single thought on Derek Hale this Thursday morning.

He’s knocked over by students pushing past him in their frenzied attempt to get to Derek first which Stiles finds absolutely idiotic because why would you want to fight the alpha when he’s still fresh and well-rested?

Why not wait until he has tired himself out a little?

“Are you alright?” a voice is saying and Stiles gets hoisted up by the upper arm.

“Thanks,” he says and, when he lifts his head, meets big brown doe eyes.

“Anytime,” Allison says and gives him a dimpled smile. “Are you hurt?”

“I think someone stepped on me,” Stiles mutters and dusts his pants off. “But other than that...”

Lydia is with Allison and Stiles considers asking her about the essay for history – even though in person Lydia is a lot more intimidating than Stiles remembered and now he thinks his chances of getting her to help them are about fifty, fifty, rather than ninety percent.

However, before he can even open his mouth, Lydia hisses, “What the heck is going on?!” and Stiles eyes search the crowd around Derek Hale to find out what she’s so upset about.

Only, Derek Hale is gone.

Alright, not _gone_ gone.

But he’s no longer in the center of the attacking masses and, as far as Stiles can see, Lydia Martin isn’t the only students who is baffled by that. There’s dudes yielding lacrosse sticks, eyes glowing bright yellow, who are turning this way and that way, juniors with disheveled hair and torn shirts with amazement written all over their features as if they couldn’t believe they got away without getting knocked out for once.

Stiles can see Jackson Whittemore on all fours a little off to the left, fully wolfed out, clothes intact, eyes burning and darting angrily in all directions.

He locates Derek the moment Stiles, Allison and Lydia do.

Apparently, Derek Hale has simply leaped out of the hordes of attacking students so fast that none of them really noticed until he was already gone and is now standing by the bicycle rack, features human, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

He’s blocking Scott’s way.

A dead silence falls over the school yard.

Stiles expects the werewolves who can still stand move and jump at Derek, but no one moves. This seems to be something so out of the ordinary that everyone seems to think something strange is going on.

Something is happening.

Stiles can’t see Scott’s face, only Derek’s broad, leatherjacketed back, but he can imagine his friend blinking at Derek with mild amazement when he says, “Can I help you?”

There is a drawn silence that lasts about thirty seconds during which Derek merely seems to consider Scott and Stiles is growing more and more impatient to hear what the alpha has to say for himself – why it is that he’s broken with his daily morning routine just to step in Scott’s way.

Then of course – and Stiles should really have seen that coming – Derek grabs Scott by the shoulders so quickly that Scott can’t react and before he knows what hit him he’s being hurled through the air and onto the asphalt with a loud and very painful sounding _thud_.

“Holy shit!” is all Stiles can say to that. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see Allison slowly nodding. She looks at least as shocked as Stiles.

Lydia is watching the scene warily, eyes narrowed, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“What the hell is he doing,” Allison gasps. Scott is slowing picking himself up again, face distorted with pain, while Derek is watching him. “What the hell does Derek think he’s doing?”

When Scott is on his feet again, Derek is already ducking down and Stiles can’t believe this is happening.

Apparently, neither can anyone else, because he can hear people everywhere gasping and exclaiming things like, _What the fuck is happening_ and _He’s going to kill McCall_.

“Stiles, you _have_ to tell me.”

Allison has turned to face him – either because she can’t watch or because she already knows what’s going to happen – and looks at him earnestly, almost pleadingly.

“Has Scott pissed Derek off somehow?”

“What?”

“I thought – I really though Scott’s a nice guy, and that he’s not dead set on becoming the alpha like all those knuckleheads over there,” and she nods in the direction of the bloody and beaten-up weres who are just watching wide-eyed while the alpha attacks a target that isn’t them.

“...but he seems to – I don’t know – to have _angered_ Derek somehow.”

Stiles finds himself shaking his head vigorously.

“No, Allison, I swear. I mean, it’s not like I know Scott so well – but I’m pretty sure he has no clue why Isaac jumped at him yesterday – or why Derek Hale is trying to kill him right now.”

And he forces himself to look over to where his friend is struggling to evade the alpha’s deadly claws. Derek is so fast that Stiles has trouble following his movements.

It’s just a matter of time until he finally manages to strike Scott – not just beat him up, but slash him open.

“Oh, my God, I can’t watch...,” Stiles mumbles. He considers hiding his face in his hands. “Someone _has_ to do something, we _can’t_ let this happen, oh, my God...”

“Relax,” Lydia says sharply. “He’s not going to kill him. He’s _testing_ him.”

“Huh?” Stiles goes and Allison says, “What do you mean, Lydia?”

“If Derek meant to strike him, he’d already have done it. If Derek means to hurt him, Scott would be werewolf haché right now.”

“But – he’s trying to hit him. Just look at it,” Stiles says, just when Derek manages to grab a hold of Scott’s right upper arm and Scott is hurled around once more. This time, however, Scott manages to break free. He pivots and lands on all fours. Stiles can see that he’s wolfed-out – and he looks angry now.

Or maybe Stiles is just imagining it.

“He’s _not_ trying to hit him, isn’t that obvious?,” Lydia says haughtily, “where is your _brain_ , Stiles? Derek is an _alpha_. He’s incredibly powerful. He usually doesn’t even shift when someone attacks him.”

“You mean – you mean thirty werewolves aren’t a match for him?”

“Hardly,” Lydia says.

“But then – why would Scott be a match?”

Lydia doesn’t respond. She just narrows her eyes even more, like she’s thinking. Or pissed because Stiles is asking too many questions.

“He isn’t really,” Allison answers for her friend. “He’s faster than the other werewolves, but he doesn’t have any practice whatsoever. He doesn’t even really know what to do with his claws.”

They consider Scott’s clumsy attempts to get away from Derek’s claws and fangs for a few moments.

“It’s just as Lydia says,” Allison adds, “it almost seems like Derek’s playing with Scott.”

“But – why?”

Lydia clicks her tongue and Allison sighs, worry on her face.

“I don’t know.”

 

 

 

“Dude! Are you okay?!”

Stiles is shaking Scott’s shoulder who groans and flops on his back.

There are cuts and bruises on his face, but Stiles can see them healing already. His clothes are torn, there’s leaves and small twigs in his hair and he’s dirty all over, as if someone shoved him into the mud face first – which Derek actually did.

Twice.

“What the hell, man? Just – what the hell?!”

“No idea,” Scott says and sighs, “I swear. No idea what his is all about.” He doesn’t even make an effort to get up, just lies there on his back while the crowd of students is dissipating and people are slowly moving into the direction of their respective classrooms.

They’re throwing Scott wary glances when they pass him by.

“You did a pretty good job staying alive though.”

“I don’t know, man. Derek didn’t really try to hit me. Had he wanted to, I’d be so dead right now,” Scott says. He’s slowly sitting up now. “Ouch.... man....”

Then he’s standing and swaying only a little. Stiles has picked up Scott’s backpack from where he’d flung it when Derek attacked him.

“You look pretty beaten, man...”

“Good, because that’s exactly how I feel. At least I’m healing fast...”

 He takes his backpack from Stiles and they start towards the building.

“Everyone’s staring at you.”

“Tsss. Let them... I don’t care.”

Once again, Stiles can’t help but admire his new friend’s strength. He wants to talk this through with Scott real bad, but knows that every supernatural and human ear is trying to pick up their conversation, so he says instead, “Math is first.”

“Right. Remember where the classroom is?”

“Er.... second floor, was it?”

Scott nods and pats his shoulder.

“Good job, buddy.”

The students in the hallway dart out of their way, whispering to each other and pointing when they think that Scott can’t see it. Even the teachers are staring at Scott.

“They’re not even making an effort at hiding it...,” Stiles says, grimacing.

“Just ignore them,” Scott says again. “They’ll only talk for a few days before something else happens and then------grlgrrrll.”

He can’t finish the sentence because a clawed, furry hand has darted oud and grabbed Scott by the throat.

It’s Jackson Whittemore and his eyes are glowing. Then there’s a crash when he slams Scott into the lockers with such force that Stiles can see the blue aluminum dent in around his body.

Scott’s eyes are glowing as well, but once again he makes no effort to defend himself, but merely grabs the claw that is squeezing his windpipe shut and tries to pry it away from his throat.

“What did Hale want from you?”

“Let go of him,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t say anything. He just reciprocates Jackson’s angry gaze. Then he just shakes off Jackson’s hand and turns away from him, as if not even deeming Jackson worthy of an answer.

“Alright then,” Jackson snarls and pivots on his heel.

In hindsight, Stiles thinks that it would have been wise to mimic all the other students and quickly retreat, at least move out of Jackson’s reach. But because he’s an idiot – an idiot who just can’t get it into his thick head that he’s surrounded by werewolves that is – Stiles is still standing right behind Jackson when he finds himself slammed into the lockers on the opposite wall.

The impact knocks the wind right out of him and for a moment, the whole world is spinning. Scott is peeling out of the lockers leaving a Scott-shaped hole behind and he’s already pulling at Jackson’s shoulders.

Stiles feels like shouting _What the fuck_ or _Are you people all crazy?_ but he has a hard time breathing. He tries to kick Jackson, but he can’t even gain an inch and probably looks really pathetic, pinned against the lockers by a living and breathing werewolf.

Jackson tries to duck away when Scott aims for his head, but since he’s still pressing Stiles against the lockers he doesn’t really have the space to move.

Scott still manages to hit him hard, but Jackson just shakes it off and snarls, “Tell me what Hale wants from your or I’ll hurt your dainty human friend. Filthy omega!”

Of course, Jackson is used to being beaten up and knocked unconscious on a daily basis.

And he’s _going to_ hurt Stiles?

He’s already hurting him and Stiles is growing angry.

He has no clue what omega means, but he knows that every time Jackson throws it at Scott he’s really trying to offend him.

So as the shock is waning off, he feels like he’s really about to lose it.

Not that that would matter – he literally can’t move – but he’s growing less scared of Jackson’s glowing yellow eyes and unhuman strength and more and more pissed off at this jerk.

“Let – go,” he forces out and Jackson finally looks at him – looks at him and then his eyes widen and he draws back his hand, clutches it to his chest, staring at Stiles, staring and panting.

Then of course, Scott gives him a good hard kick and Jackson collapses against the lockers.

“Mr. Whittemore. Detention,” a thin voice is saying and Stiles can see Mr. Harris, hands in his pockets, face, as always, a complete deadpan.

“Mr. McCall... detention.”

Scott gasps angrily, but Mr. Harris is already eyeing Stiles.

Staring at him would be more accurate and just ten minutes earlier, Stiles would have been peeing his pants.

Now though.

He’s panting, he’s so, so angry that he feels like jumping at Jackson and kicking the bastard, and he feels like kicking Mr. Harris’ stupid, creepy wendiigo ass, and all these students who are watching the scene, not even having the decency to pretend that they’re not looking.

Mr. Harris looks him up and down and Stiles knows he can feel – hear, smell – how angry he is.

How off-balance.

“Mr. ..... Stilinski,” Harris is saying now with his long, drawn snarl and the trademark pause in-between words. “Detention.”

“What?” Scott almost shouts at him, “Mr. Harris, Stiles wasn’t doing anything, Jackson just attacked him, he could’ve killed-”

But Harris interrupts him with a wave of his hand.

“Should you – _choose_ to continue... _talking_ , Mr. McCall, I will consider giving you – _detention_... for the rest of the month.”

Harris’ calm and thin voice settles on the hallway like a pall.

Stiles can see the veins on Scott’s throat pulsating and, oddly enough, it’s his friend’s anger that finally calms him down a little. He carefully draws closer to Scott and puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Good,” Harris whispers, his eyes never leaving Stiles’. “Tomorrow at two – my office. Don’t.... _be late_.”

 

 

 

Stiles insists that he’s fine, even though his whole body is aching from having been slammed into the lockers by a freaking werewolf.

Scott still drags him to the nurse’s office for a check-up, and Stiles ends up missing math, and then English as well because when he gets up from the bed, his knees feel like rubber.

“Have you been feeling dizzy lately?”

Stiles nods.

“Actually – yeah. And kind of – nauseous.”

The nurse throws a look at the thermometer.

“Your temperature is elevated, and so is your heart rate. You should rest, Mr. Stilinski, rather than go back to class.”

Stiles just nods and decides to ignore the suggestion.

Besides, even though he has large red bruises in his back that will surely have turned blue and purple by tomorrow, he can’t ditch the one chance to get on the Beacon Hills High lacrosse team. He’s not really athletic or anything, but he loves lacrosse and he’d never forgive himself for not even trying.

So, no way is he going to go home now.

He thanks the nurse and joins his classmates right in time for the third period.

 

 

“Everything alright with you, Stilinski?” Danny says when Stiles puts his lunch tray down opposite him.

Stiles gives a curt nod.

“That looked definitely painful. For Jackson to deal with a human that way is really low. He shouldn’t have done it.”

“Isn’t he your best friend, Mahealani?” a girl with brown hair says and Danny nods.

“Yeah. So?”

“Hey, McCall! You going to take you revenge on Whittemore?” someone from the crowd of students bustling about the cafeteria shouts.

“That would be stupid,” Scott says without even raising his voice. He sits down next to Stiles.

“Hey McCall! Is it true that you’re an omega?” someone else is yelling. “Is that why the alpha is trying to kill you?”

“Yeah,” someone else chimes in, “do you think he wants to wipe the earth clean of filth like you?”

Stiles is looking around with confusion.

Next to him, Scott has started eating calmly and silently.

“Enough,” Allison slams down her tray on the table behind Danny and, within a second, she has leaped on top, her boots knocking over poppy juice and coke cans. Most people in the cafeteria turn around and stare at her with open mouths, but Lydia who sat at Allison’s table mere seconds ago just rolls her eyes, pushes her chair back a foot or two and continues flicking through her cellphone.

Allison considers the students around her angrily.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, all of you! Don’t you have anything better to do than bully people?!” she addresses the cafeteria in general.

“If anyone wants call _anyone_ names, why don’t you get up right now and show me that you have balls. And _stop_ taking photos Danny, or you’re the first one I take down!”

Danny immediately lowers his camera.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters and sneaks back onto the bench opposite Scott and Stiles and Stiles – he gets it. Allison looks terrifying, the way she’s pointing her crossbow in all directions, as if truly and honestly prepared to murder whoever unfortunate were or non-were stupid enough to pipe up now.

“Don’t bother, Allison,” Scott says calmly and simply continues shoveling rice into his mouth.

“Since when are weapons allowed at school,” Stiles whispers in Danny’s direction. Danny who is looking through the photos he just took smirks.

“Since Beacon Hills is a school of supernatural creatures with crazy healing powers?” he says back in a low voice. “Really Stilinski... it’s been a week, you should really make an effort to get used to this.”

Stiles stares up at Allison’s crossbow and swallows and thinks that he can’t, he really can’t.

“Come on, Stiles... let’s go outside.”

 “What? You’re done already? How fast exactly do you eat?”

They get up in the dead silence of the cafeteria and walk out. When Stiles throws a look back, Allison is still up on the table, staring angrily down at the students none of whom seem particularly interested in challenging her. Probably better unless you want to spend the rest of the day breathing through an arrow hole in your neck.

“Mh... Scott?”

“Yes?”

“Er.... how many werewolves are on the lacrosse team?”

“All of the players but one.”

“What, nine of the players are werewolves? You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s the human on the team?”

“Danny Mahealani.”

Stiles lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Of course. Danny. The only human to have figured out how to keep up with wolves on a lacrosse team.... And how many weres are on the other teams in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles did a little online research before moving here, so he knows that the other high school has a lacrosse team, too, and so do the two middle schools, as well as the community college, the Beacon Hills School of Liberal Arts and Beacon Hills Academy.

“About 90% of them, if I remember correctly.”

“On all teams?”

Scott nods.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Why? Because that means my chances are, like – zero.”

Scott frowns.

“No, I wouldn’t say that.”

They have left the building and are walking across the schoolyard in the direction of the lacrosse field. In less than three hours Stiles is going to try out for the team. He’s nervous, but it doesn’t really matter anymore today. He’s simply going to give his best. He doesn’t really care what else happens, his whole body already aches, and his skin is itching.

Why not add lacerations and cracked ribs to that.

Lacrosse with wolves.

What the hell was he even thinking.

Stiles looks up to the cloudy sky. It’s probably going to rain later on, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s not like good weather would improve his lacrosse skills at all.

They take a seat on the bleachers.

“You’re going to do fine, don’t worry.”

“I’m not a good player, not even on good days. And I’m not particularly in top form right now.”

Scott nods and looks out onto the field.

“I know, I figured you’re not feeling well. You’re kind of – radiating heat. Like you have a cold or something.”

Stiles chooses not to comment on how creepy it is that Scott can read his body like a book.

Instead, he says, “Er... okay, there’s something I meant to ask you.”

“Shoot.”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but.... what – what’s an.... omega?

Scott lifts his eyebrows.

“Right. I keep forgetting that you don’t know anything about werewolves yet.”

Stiles nods and waits.

Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

It seems to have something to do with pack dynamics. Omega – the last. If alpha is the most powerful, the leader of his kind – then the omega is –

“An omega is... mh. A freak of nature.”

“A freak of nature? Er – like everything supernatural you mean?”

Scott smirks.

“I see what you’re getting at – but no. In the supernatural world, an omega is a werewolf who doesn’t have any werewolf powers.”

“Huh? You mean – like a squib in Harry Potter?”

Scott nods.

“Yeah.”

“So basically someone who shifts, but can’t do anything else?”

“Yup.”

“No supernatural senses, no superhuman speed or healing powers...”

“Well, most importantly – an omega can never fit into a pack. It is said that omegas are lone wolves because they don’t understand how werewolf bonding works and simply can’t figure out how to run with a pack. Calling a werewolf an omega is the worst insult you can think of.”

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds.

“Wow, that’s – that’s heavy.”

Scott shrugs.

“So they think you’re an omega because you never attack Derek Hale and you never fight back?”

Scott shrugs again.

“Probably. They think I don’t fight back because I physically can’t. Plus – I told you that people usually look at bitten werewolves with suspicion. Like – they have dirty blood, you know?”

Stiles frowns.

“People are repulsive.”

“Well. I try to ignore it,” Scott says. He stretches and yawns.

“So...,” Stiles starts, unsure of whether he is allowed to keep talking about something so intimate. At least – he thinks it must be intimate because Scott doesn’t offer any further information. He just looks ahead over the field as if lost in thought. “Allison doesn’t think that. And I don’t either. I mean – I know you can hear my heartbeat and all.”

Scott smiles at him.

“Yeah. But I could still be an omega, you see? That’s the thing. The omega? That’s just an invention. Like any other mean or racist stereotype. And most of the bitten werewolves buy into it because having me around makes them look strong in comparison. Of course they’re like – exactly a hundred percent as weak or strong as any regular born wolf, but – deep down, they fear that they’ll always be inferior because they weren’t born right. You know?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“It is how it is. I mean – I can deal with it.”

“So...,” Stiles starts again. “So, you were – bitten?”

When Scott doesn’t answer right away, he looks down at his sneakers.

“Sorry. That’s probably something you don’t ask.”

“It’s fine,” Scott says and gives him a wide, toothy smile. “It’s right that you don’t usually ask someone if they’re bitten, but only because it’s an insult to even assume that. Like saying, _So, hey, I noticed you really suck..._ it’s so stupid.”

“But – didn’t you say Erica and Isaac are bitten wolves?”

“Yeah, but they were bitten to become the pack of the alpha of Beacon Hills. While it was a scandal, the fact that Derek _chose_ them also changed things for them a little. People don’t look down on them so much as they do on other bitten wolves.”

“Because belonging to a pack with an alpha makes you stronger, got it. Mh, okay... so... can any werewolf bite you?”

“You mean, can a beta turn you?”

Stiles nods.

“No. It has to be an alpha.”

“Wait – but – did Derek turn you?” Stiles suddenly says, then immediately corrects himself, “No, wait, that can’t be, then you’d definitely be a part of his pack.”

“Exactly. Plus, Derek Hale wouldn’t simply bite someone without getting their permission first. He’s not that kind of a guy.”

Stiles doesn’t dare ask who is, but Scott offers an explanation before he has to.

“The bite – it’s why we moved here in the first place. Before, I was a regular guy – like you, you know? Hadn’t even heard about the supernatural before.”

“Wha- okay, wow, so – you moved here because a werewolf bit you?”

Scott nods.

“It happened two years ago, I’d just turned fourteen. We were on vacation and the Florida alpha bit me. Er...,” he shakes his head because Stiles gets this shocked expression on his face, “alphas don’t usually do that. But this guy – they called him ‘the mad alpha’ – he was killed not long after, I think. People say he was a bitten wolf who gained his alpha powers by poisoning a born alpha and that’s why he couldn’t cope. Born wolves instinctively know how to deal with it, you know?”

“Deal with it? Deal with what?”

“With everything. The anger. The strength. The keen senses. But when you get bitten like me you have to learn everything from scratch and usually – it’s just like I told you: it’s a commonly held belief that bitten wolves can never be as strong as born wolves. Or as controlled.”

Stiles nods. He feels like he should voice his empathy now. Say something like, _Aaw, that sucks, man_ , but even in his head the words sound incredibly meaningless. What do you say to a person who just told you he was turned into a werewolf by a guy called ‘the mad alpha’?

Exactly.

So Stiles keeps his mouth shut and pays Scott the respect of his full and undivided attention.

“So my mom started doing research and contacted Dr. Deaton.”

“Your boss.”

Scott nods.

“My boss. She didn’t know he’s a spark of course. She just figured he’s a veterinarian with an interest in the occult. He has this, like – really odd website. Never mind now. We didn’t know anything. My mom was shocked out of her mind when she saw me shift for the first time. Ha, she almost shot me.”

He looks down at his feet and Stiles’ heart aches for him.

“Well... they talked on the phone, I think, and then the next day, we packed our bags and got into the car to drive out here. It was almost the full moon and I kinda felt – out of control. Didn’t know what was going on. That really terrified me. But it turned out alright. Dr. Deaton calmed me and my mom down. He gave me the job at the animal clinic and taught me the most important stuff. Like how to find your anchor and not to rip my mom’s throat out on a full moon. You know? Stuff like that.”

He laughs but it sounds nervous and Stiles doesn’t join in.

“That must have been horrible, dude,” he says and Scott shrugs.

“It’s okay. Plus, my mom says she really likes it here. Says that she would never have dreamed of her job getting that interesting. She’s a nurse, you know.”

Stiles nods.

He feels relieved, like everything makes more sense now.

Why Scott is being shunned, why Jackson keeps picking on Scott instead of anyone else. Why Scott immediately took to Stiles when he first showed up at school.

Scott has been the new kid in town, like Stiles, until not so long ago.

“I guess we should head back. Lunch break is over in ten.”

Stiles gets up slowly. He feels like they’ve been here for hours, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes. He jumps down the bleachers, manages to trip over his feet and almost faceplants right into the mud. Blushing he quickly straightens up again, but Scott doesn’t even comment on it.

Instead, he turns to look over to the trees behind the bleachers and says, “Did you like my story, Derek?”

Stiles stares at him, considering for a moment that his friend is mocking him.

Then, to his utmost surprise, Derek Hale is stepping out from behind the bleachers. His leather jacket is buttoned up and he’s not wearing his sunglasses.

“When did you pick up my scent?”

“Only just not when we got up,” Scott says regretfully, “Or I certainly wouldn’t have said what I said. It’s really rude to listen in on people’s private conversations. I don’t care if you’re the alpha or not, you had not right to do that.”

Derek’s lips stretch into a sarcastic smirk. Of course he completely ignores Scott’s remark.

“You can’t pretend like you don’t care about people bullying you, Scott.”

“Don’t talk like you know me,” Scott says coldly. “Come on, Stiles. We should go.”

Derek turns to look at him and Stiles shrinks under his piercing gaze. The alpha takes a few steps in their direction.

“I have an offer to make you, Scott McCall.”

Scott sighs and rolls his eyes and, despite himself, stops – maybe because Stiles never moved in the first place. Stiles not really sure why, but Derek is still staring at him.

“Tell your friend that I want to talk with him, Stiles.”

Stiles is so surprised to hear Derek say his name – the fact that he even remembered it – that he says, “W-what?”

“Will I get an answer as to why you and your pack seem set on beating me into a fleshy pulp all of a sudden?”

Derek just nods.

“Alright then,” and Scott turns around to face him.

“I want you to join my pack,” Derek simply says.

Following his words is a deep and long silence in which both Stiles and Scott just stare at Derek like he lost his mind.

“C-come again?” Stiles finally stutters because Scott doesn’t say anything at all. He knows he’s blinking wildly, but he just heard – he’d swear he heard Derek Hale ask Scott to –

“Join my pack.”

“What?”

Scott looks just as baffled as Stiles is feeling. Even with his own limited knowledge of the supernatural Stiles knows that something really strange is going on.

“Join my pack,” Derek repeats.

“What?”

Derek rolls his eyes and Stiles can see the words _If you say what one more time_... form right behind his deep-set eyes.

“I was testing you earlier today – and I’m sorry if that confused you. It was necessary.”

More like scared the living hell out of us, Stiles thinks.

“My strength,” Scott says, eyeing the alpha warily.

“Your character. Your strength I know all about.”

And, after a pause, as if that statement required an explanation, “I’m the alpha. I can sense exactly how strong you are.”

Unbelievable.

That guy and his nonchalance – simply unbelievable.

Scott narrows his eyes. “And you wanted to figure out – what? If I’d be willing to join you for your pack fights?”

“No, you idiot,” Derek says back and he seems impatient now. He’s advancing a few more steps toward them and Stiles is, once again, amazed by the curve of his jaw, the smoothness of Derek’s movements and the sheer power he seems to be exuding. So much so that Stiles inadvertently takes a step back.

“You keep saying you don’t want power and you seem to have a soothing effect on my pack. I was testing whether, in a moment of crisis, you will stay true to your word.”

“Hey, wait a second,” Stiles interrupts without really meaning to, “so you didn’t try to kill him?”

“Of course, I didn’t,” Derek says back and he turns back to Stiles – and Stiles, once again pierced by Derek Hale’s gaze, freezes. “Scott knows that.” And, to Scott, “I know you could tell the difference.”

“I could,” Scott says, scratching his head. “So – you’re not joking?”

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

Scott frowns, but doesn’t respond for a few seconds.

Then, slowly, “I... I don’t – think that would be a good idea.”

“You don’t have to answer me now. Take your time.”

 And with that he turns around and starts toward the trees again.

Scott is staring at his back and Stiles is flailing his arms and saying, “Un- _belie_ -vable,” over and over again. He feels like he has to voice Scott’s disbelief, his friend is so eerily silent and he stays like that until long after Derek vanished in the shades of the woods again.

Stiles is watching him during Econ and Physics and he can see Scott thinking – really thinking about it.

“How come you didn’t know Derek was there?” Stiles says two hours later. They’re walking over to the locker rooms and Stiles is pretty sure that no one is in earshot – not even in werewolf-earshot.

“Alphas can hide their scent. I thought that was one of these facts in TL that you have to memorize, but that are like – incorrect or outdated. But apparently it’s true. Who’d have thought.”

“Er... tee-ell?”

“T period, L period. It’s an abbreviation.”

“What does it stand for?”

Scott shrugs and pushes a dark blue door opposite the gymnasium open.

“No idea, man. I told you – I suck at school.”

“What a surprise to hear that,” someone snarls and this time, Stiles doesn’t have to look around to know exactly whose smug face the voice belongs to.

“Don’t tell me Jackson’s on the team,” Stiles whisper-hisses to Scott who pulls up his shoulders and makes a face as if wanting to say, _sorry bro, forgot to mention it_.

“ _Captain_ of the lacrosse team,” Jackson says sharply because of course he heard what Stiles said.

“And we don’t need a skinny excuse for a human here.”

Jackson has rounded a row of lockers and is staring Stiles up and down with such intensity and utter disgust that Stiles wonders whether werewolves also have some sort of x-ray vision.

Then again, Jackson doesn’t really need it to know that Stiles isn’t ripped like he is. And Stiles has to admit – Jackson has an impressive body. He’s standing there wearing nothing but his lacrosse shorts and seems to consist of nothing but muscles with smooth, tanned skin pulled tightly over it.

Danny who is tying his shoes on a bench to the right also lets his gaze linger on Stiles’ upper body, then says, “Easy, Jackson.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jackson grits out. “But he’ll see for himself soon enough. And learn.”

“I do work out,” Stiles says meekly, but Jackson has already turned around. He’s marching back to where he’d been changing, at the other end of the room.

“Am I imagining that or is Jackson more pissed off than he usually is?” Stiles whispers to Scott, and they immediately hear a loud, metallic bang – Jackson who hit the lockers – presumably with his fist.

“He heard that didn’t he,” Stiles whispers with wide-eyes.

“Dude, _I_ heard that,” Danny says. “Get a grip Stilinski, you’re no longer in the rest of the world. This is Beacon Hills. And Jackson is right – you’ll have to be pretty tough to keep up with the team.”

“You mean tough like you?” Stiles says and he meant for it to come out all smug and sarcastic, but he can’t get his voice to stop shaking and sound even remotely masculine.

Danny gives him a wide grin.

“Exactly, Stilinski. Like me.”

And he straightens his back and gives Stiles a slap on the shoulder so hard that Stiles almost topples over.

 

 

Oh – okay.

That – that’s going to be –

Great.

Just great.

At first, Stiles is genuinely happy because Coach Finstock doesn’t even really look at him, but just says: “Bilinski? Is Bilinski here? Alright, alright, no need to shout your stupid name at me. Okay, Bilinski – you’re on the team. Congratulations, yada yada yada, GET OUT ON THE FIELD, ALL OF YOU – YOU PATHETIC EXCUSES FOR A LACROSSE TEAM!!!”

So, in hindsight, the fact that Coach didn’t really want to see whether Stiles even knows what lacrosse is should really have tipped him off.

He stumbles out into the open, following the others and trying to keep as close to Scott as possible. On his way out, Jackson shoves him, so Stiles, rather than make it through the door, hits the brick wall. Scott glowers at Jackson, then quickly grabs Stiles upper arm and simply yanks him to his feet, not even caring about maybe, possibly, ripping Stiles’ arm out.

Stiles starts walking again and thinks, for the very first time: oh, my God, they’re going to rip me to shreds.

They’re going to rip me to shreds, holy shit. Even Scott, because he can’t really tell exactly how strong he is either.

But – no, wait.

Calm down, Stiles.

Get a fucking grip.

There’s – there’s rules, yes?

Fouls and all.

And Coach – might seem slightly insane, but he has to be at least an okay coach. Maybe even a great coach. Otherwise, people wouldn’t have turned his job on the team into a part of his name, yes?

You only do that with people who live and breathe the sport.

“I’m on the team,” Stiles finally says when they have reached the bleachers. “I can’t believe it. He didn’t even want to try out my skills --- _what_?”

Jackson who had let out a mean, sarcastic laugh, stops and looks at Stiles, an expression on his face that’s in-between a smirk and a grimace of disgust.

“You’re so fucking clueless, Stilinski. I feel sorry for you.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Scott sighs, but Stiles – he can’t help it, he does feel worried.

It’s only now that he looks around himself and the first thing that strikes him as unusual is that there’s people on the bleachers. And not the regular three to five kids who are doing their homework and don’t really watch practice, or who are waiting for their friends, or who want to be on the team and hope to learn from watching, or who have a crush on one of the players.

But no, there’s an actual audience, about twenty people who seem genuinely interested in whatever is to follow and – Stiles’ can feel a rush of adrenaline wash over him – one of them is Derek Hale.

He’s leaning against a tree trunk a little further back, where the rest of the audience can’t see him and, judging from their cheerful chit chat and otherwise utter oblivion as to the presence of their alpha, Stiles is pretty sure that Derek is hiding his scent again and maybe Stiles only spotted him because he sort of looked for him. Guessed that, yes, Derek might be here.

Come to think of it, of course he’d be there. He’s probably been lurking around the bleachers for the past two hours, or ate a rabbit or fought a bear, or whatever an alpha does during the day, and now he’s here to watch his new pack member to be. Stiles is happy for his new friend – he knows that being singled out like this by the alpha is freaking incredible and if Jackson – oh, if Jackson knew.

A small smile steals onto Stiles face.

It’s going to crush the son-of-a-bitch and he hopes he’ll be there when Jackson finds out.

At the same time though, Stiles really doesn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of all these people, and especially not in front of Derek Hale.

The dude’s all power and fluid movement and elegance and Stiles is, well.

He isn’t any of these things.

If anything, he’s the complete and total opposite of Derek Hale.

Derek’s pack is here, too. Unlike their alpha, they don’t have to hide in the shadows – no one wants to constantly jump and defeat _them_. So, Erica and Isaac are sitting up there, in the last row, and both look exceedingly bored.

Stiles can also make out Lydia and Allison and, indeed, even Corey, the wendiigo kid is there. He’s crouched on the far end of an almost empty row, looking uncomfortable and small. Their eyes meet and Stiles sighs – and raises his hand, gives Corey a nod.

The shadow of a smile ghosts over Corey’s pale face, and then he quickly looks down to his feet again, as if unsure of whether he’s even allowed to be here. He really looks like someone might step up to him and kick him out any minute and Stiles thinks that that’s exactly how he himself feels.

“Hey, man – is there always that big of an audience?”

“Mh?” Scott looks up from his shoes. “Damnit... stupid laces broke again. Er, yeah. Usually about twenty to thirty people. Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Don’t you think that’s – kinda odd?”

“Huh?” Scott straightens his back and blinks. “Why would that be odd?”

“Because – it’s only practice?”

Scott just stares at him for a few more seconds, then his lips widen into a smile and he pats Stiles on the shoulder.

“Relax, you’ll be fine, man. Just forget that they’re here. No need to be so nervous.”

Once again, Scott saw right through him, but this time, he sort of misunderstood Stiles. Yes, all these people’s eyes on him does heighten his already considerably high stress levels, but – it really is odd.

Stiles starts running rounds, and he catches up with Danny when he realizes that everyone else is still just standing there, talking while Coach is staring angrily ahead.

“Why is no one else warming up?”

“Because werewolves don’t have to warm up,” Danny gives back.

“Oh. Right. Should have known,” Stiles says. He’s already struggling to keep up with Danny’s long strides. This is not looking too good for him.

“Okay!” Coach suddenly yells and blows his whistle. “Attack, Whittemore, O’Connor, McCall. Come on, guys!”

“That’s a girl,” Stiles says, befuddled, when Jackson, Scott and a tall, black-haired girl dart onto the field.

“So?”

“There’s no mixed teams in lacrosse.”

Danny frowns at him.

“In classic lacrosse.”

“What?”

“There’s no mixed teams in classic lacrosse. This isn’t classic lacrosse.”

“What?” Stiles turns to him, mouth open. “But – _what_?”

Coach’s whistle cuts off his sentence.

“That’s three bites, Whittemore, you’re OUT!!”

“Th-three _bites_?” Stiles says and turns back to the rest of the team to see the brunette girl limping off the field, bleeding profusely from a wound in her left leg.

Danny lets out a chuckle, and he slaps Stiles’ shoulder again.

“This is Anything Goes lacrosse. Best sport in the world.”

“Any--- thing Goes....?”

“Yeah. Or why do you think there’s like thirty people on the edge of the field right now? That’s for backup.”

“B-but – the rules-”

“Rules?” Danny barks out a laugh. “There’s no rules in Anything Goes lacrosse!”

“BILINSKI!!”

“Yes!” Stiles jumps when Coach yells his name.

“Goalie. NOW!!”

“B-but---”

“Come on, dickwad!” Jackson yells. Stiles can see that there’s blood on his chin. Stiles starts walking over to the goal and can’t shake the image of a little lamb walking into the midst of a group of big bad wolves.

Of course they can sense – smell – how anxious he is, how worried and just for the heck of it, Jackson lets his eyes glow yellow and his fangs pop out of his jaws.

Anything Goes lacrosse.

He should have known.

In hindsight, he should have known.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This is Beacon Hills after all.

His feet feel oddly numb and because he isn’t walking fast enough, Coach grabs him by the shoulders and shoves him into the goal with such force that Stiles almost faceplants into the mud. He tries to ignore the mean snickers from the rest of the team and concentrate on Scott who’s yelling, albeit slightly inappropriately because nothing happened yet, “Yeah! Woo-hooo, _go Stiles_!”

‘They’re going to kill me,’ Stiles thinks.

‘Rip me limb from limb. Take a bite and then peel me like an orange.’

When Coach blows his whistle, Stiles ducks down a little. If he has to go down, he’s at least going to take it like a man.

Stiles is better in midfield, but he doesn’t completely suck as a goalie either.

Now, of course, three powerful, supernatural creatures with ferally glowing eyes are stampeding in his direction and Stiles thinks that rhythmic gymnastics actually sounds good, really good.

Dancing is the one thing Stiles is really good at. He’s been on a gymnastics team when he was little – which, of course, he’d never ever admit to anyone ever – and on second thoughts, he really should have stuck to it.

Or to something else that’s less – deadly.

Stiles can’t help it, at the last second he squeezes his eyes shut. His fingers around the stick are sweaty and trembling.

There’s a loud and ugly crash and Stiles jumps back a foot, almost getting entangled in the net. His eyes snap open.

Jackson is stretched out on the field, Scott on top of him, the black-haired girl, O’Connor, hitting him over the head with her stick.

“Back on your feet Whittemore!!” Coach yells, “Come on, come on, COME ON, what kind of a whuzz are you, get back up!!”

Jackson lets out a low snarl and he’s back on his feet again. Stiles can see that he’s wolfed-out behind his mask, and there’s spit and blood on his chin and foam on his fangs.

“Oh, Buddha,” Stiles mutters when Jackson sets off in the direction of the goal again. He raises his stick to hurl the ball – Stiles has a sudden vision of the ball just going right through the net – but O’Connor swings her stick and swiftly whacks it into his stomach. Scott jumps on Jackson’s back and they go down once again.

Then it’s just a mess of limbs and fangs and claws and fur.

Stiles is calming down again because it doesn’t really seem like anything is going to happen to him here. Not today.

O’Connor is punching Jackson and Scott, always the pacifist, contends himself with snarling at him and only kicking him in the side when Jackson almost bites a piece out of his arm.

After another minute, the sticks lie forgotten in a pile, O’Connor’s is broken in two and unusable anyway. Jackson is clutching the ball in the claws of his right hand, but when he throws it, it doesn’t even come close to the goal. Probably because Scott put out his leg and tripped Jackson up.

Stiles is standing in the goal, mouth agape.

He can’t fucking believe it.

“Well done, boys. And girl,” Coach yells and claps his hands a few times, “Great game! Johnston, Mahealani and Schmidt, you’re up next!”

Danny is fast. He avoids body-checks with the werewolves and uses his stick like a lance and Stiles is beginning to wonder what it’s made of. He’s pretty sure that when Danny blocked Schmidt’s attack, he heard wood hit metal.

When he meets Danny’s gaze, he lifts his eyebrows. Danny grins, whirls his stick around and mouthes _“Anything Goes lacrosse!”_ and Stiles sighs and shakes his head.

After twenty minutes, more than twenty players are stretched out on the margins of the field, groaning and healing.

Danny didn’t lie about the size of the team, but he wasn’t completely honest about the no-rule thing.

It’s not that there aren’t any rules in Anything Goes lacrosse.

It’s just that they are completely arbitrary and seem to make the game unnecessarily complicated.

When a small, stout guy with cropped hair – one of the Schmidt twins, Ethan or Aidan – knocks a blonde girl from freshman year unconscious Coach congratulates him on the ingenious move, and when he picks the ball up with his fangs ten seconds later because Danny managed to take his stick from him and is now yielding two, whirling them through the air like swords, no one even blinks an eye.

But then Coach suddenly goes, “What are you doing, Schmidt?! Wind is coming from south-east!! You’re OUT,” and Stiles doesn’t get it.

But it seems like he will have enough time to learn whatever he has to from simply observing because after ten more minutes, he’s sort of getting comfortable in the goal. He doesn’t even flinch anymore when another one of his co-players gets a few of his teeth knocked out – and then limps off the field, muttering curses, to let them grow back.

It’s only three players standing now: Danny because he has managed to completely avoid a werewolf-bodycheck; Scott because his style is extremely defensive and evasive as well; and Jackson because he’s a relentless machine and really, _really_ wants to be the last one standing. He’s leaping at Danny who currently holds the ball in the net of one of his two lacrosse sticks and this time it looks like Danny will not be able to maneuver out of this attack.

A loud, collective groan comes from the crowd on the bleachers. Stiles can hear people yell, “Unbelievable! It’s the Hale-bluff!” and Coach shakes his fist, hollering, “Yeah! Awesome, Whittemore!”

Instead of hurling himself at Danny, Jackson has rolled away without even touching him, sending Danny flying onto the ground, face first. He scoops up the ball, evades Scott’s stick and then there’s just air and a few feet of grass between him and the goal.

Between Jackson and Stiles, and Scott yells, “Stiles, look out!!!”

In the three seconds Stiles has before Jackson simply gallops into the goal, he assumes a defensive stance, gripping the stick tightly, and the only thing he can think of is, _Don’t let the ball go through_.

He doesn’t even have the time to consider how vanishingly small his chances are to get out of this unharmed, all he can think of is that he can’t let this jerk have his moment.

And maybe Anything Goes lacrosse isn’t so bad after all.

He doesn’t really have to be as strong as a werewolf.

He just has to be inventive and unpredictable enough to keep up with them.

When Jackson just runs into the goal, only stopping when his face hits the nets, a complete and total silence spreads on the bleachers.

Stiles has darted out of the goal, thrown his stick away and gone for Jackson’s, meaning to wrap his arms around the tip so that it will physically impossible for the werewolf to carry the ball into the goal. At least he’d have to shake off Stiles first.

Jackson of course saw Stiles coming, immediately predicted his move, and simply held the stick far out of Stiles’ reach. Stiles changed his strategy at light speed and hurled himself at Jackson’s legs, not stopping him in the least.

So, here they are.

Jackson, who’s standing in the goal, panting and foaming.

Stiles is picking himself up from the ground, holding his side because Jackson’s knees and feet hit him hard – not as hard as they could have, even Jackson seems to shy away from crushing and killing a frail human, but he still got Stiles and it knocked the wind right out of his lungs.

So Jackson did it.

Stiles is out of the goal – the complete and utter failure – and Jackson’s made it.

Then coach yells, “Bilinski! Good job!!” and Stiles blinks.

And so does Jackson. He’s staring down at the net of his lacrosse stick.

It’s empty.

Then he’s looking around, eyes searching the ground, but the ball is nowhere to be found.

It’s gone.

He turns around, slowly, eyes landing on Stiles staring at him, an expression of utter disbelief on his face.

“What the....”

Scott is patting Stiles’ back repeating, “I told you, you’ll be fine! I told you, you’ll be fine!” and Danny gives him a grin and a nod.

“But – he’s _in the goal_ ,” Stiles points out, nodding over to Jackson who hasn’t moved an inch.

“So?” Danny says, “The ball has to be in there. Only rule of Anything Goes lacrosse. And can you see the ball anywhere? No. Ergo, Jackson loses, you win. You’re the last one standing, Stiles.”

“How did you do that?” O’Connor says and she holds out her hand to Stiles. “Good job, newbie. And a human, no less. I’m Marleen O’Connor, senior year.”

“Stiles,” Stiles says and takes her hand.

“I like your spirit, Bilinski,” Coach says. “You’re dainty and weak, but you got the right stuff. Okay, awesome. I’ll see you all next week, everyone! We’ll play the Academy in four weeks and we have to be ready. They have a troll on their team.”

 

 

When they’re walking over to the building and the crowd on the bleachers has dissipated, Scott is gone. Stiles turns around and sees him standing with Erica and Isaac. When he turns back he catches Jackson Whittemore’s gaze and smirks.

Yeah, that’s right, Jackson.

Derek Hale’s pack is interested in Scott, not in your stupid face.

Which reminds him.

“What’s a – Hale-bluff?” Stiles says to Danny.

“Mh? Oh, you mean what Jackson did?”

Stiles nods, following Danny inside.

“That was Derek Hale’s trademark move when he was captain of the team, ten years ago.”

“Derek Hale was on the lacrosse team?” Stiles says, amazed.

“Yeah. He’s a legend. That was before he became the alpha. You should hear Finstock – he still raves about the days, Derek Hale singlehandedly beat every other team. They won the Lead Duck Cup every single year.”

“Lead Duck --? Never mind. So – he was that good, mh?”

“Yeah, you can say that again. He was a genius with the stick. He would never lose it either, always played with it, never touched the ball with his claws or fangs. I remember watching him play when I was a kid – he’s the reason I wanted to be on the team. His style was different from any other wolf’s and it made me think that, with the right technique, a human could run with the team. There’s quite a few game moves that are named after him.”

“Like the Hale-bluff?”

Danny nods.

They’re in the locker room now and start shedding their muddy and bloody clothes. Stiles’ side is throbbing furiously, but he simply ignores it.

“So – what _is_ the Hale bluff?”

“Well – it’s basically pretending to attack.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, shaking off his right sneaker. “And then?”

“That’s it.”

“What?”

“You jump at another player, pretending to attack – and then you don’t.”

Stiles makes an expression of utter disbelief, flailing his arms. “You’re kidding me, right?”

A shake of the head from Danny.

“Then – why would that be a bluff? That’s just – how lacrosse works.”

Danny smirks.

“You still don’t seem to get it, Stiles. It’s a bluff because a werewolf would never _not_ attack.”

Silence

Danny proceeds undressing himself while Stiles just stands there, a sneaker on his left foot, a sock on his right.

Then, finally, “Aaaah...”

“You got it?” Danny says. “It’s almost impossible for a werewolf to let go of his prey once he – or she – set their mind on something. It’s simple instinct. Especially when wolfed-out. They don’t think rationally anymore then.”

“You can say that again,” one of the twins, Aidan, says. He’s standing there in his boxers, a huge mountain of pure muscle.

“That’s why Jackson’s the best player. He can pull off stuff like that, even when he’s immersed in the game.”

“Not as good as Derek used to be.”

“Well, of course not, that’s impossible, right? But I thought, he’s your best friend, Danny?”

Danny shrugs. He’s holding a bottle of shampoo and a tube of shower gel.

“So? It’s the truth.”

Then he turns around and heads off to the showers.

Stiles follows, shyly. He takes a quick shower, decidedly not looking down at his bruised side. At least, he’s no longer thinking about his aching back.

Come to think of it, Jackson Whittemore basically beat him up today. Every single bruise on Stiles’ body is owing to this jerk. He’s fine with body checks, no matter how painful, that’s just lacrosse.

But Stiles hasn’t really forgiven Jackson for slamming him into the lockers this morning – and after leaving the locker room, Stiles finds himself once again pinned up against a wall.

“Ouch, what the hell, you jerk,” Stiles growls when Jackson presses his fist into Stiles’ chest a second time this day. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

His back is screaming and his side is throbbing.

“I could be asking you the same question,” Jackson snarls.

Stiles looks left and right.

The hallway is empty, but if he asked for help, someone was bound to hear him. If they’d be willing to pry Jackson away from him though, that’s a different question.

“How did you do that?”

“What?” Stiles blinks, eyes snapping back to Jackson’s face. “Too close, dude.”

 “The ball was there and then it was just gone. How the hell did you do that?”

Oh.

That.

“I don’t know? Aren’t you supposed to be familiar with your kind of – like, werewolf-lacrosse?”

“Anything Goes lacrosse,” Jackson corrects him. Then grips his t-shirt a little tighter and lets his eyes glow neon yellow, just because.

“Right, right, Anything Goes lacrosse, right. Maybe- the ball might have rolled-”

But Jackson cuts him off.

“ _No one_ ever let a ball just _vanish_ in Anything Goes lacrosse,” he hisses, voice human and low, almost as if he wanted to prevent anyone listening in. “And this morning, you gave me an electric shock.”

“What?”

Stiles manages to sound pained and confused at the same time.

“You did – something – to make me let go.”

“You let go of me because of Harris,” Stiles forces out. Not easy to talk and breathe around Jackson’s fist that is slowly, but definitely wandering upwards in the direction of Stiles’ throat.

“Don’t lie to me!! Your eyes – I saw your goddamn eyes, Stilinski! They say you’re human and you look and smell and behave human, but – I know you’re not. What the fuck are you?”

“Hey!” someone suddenly shouts. Stiles can hear fast steps approaching.

“Let go of him.”

It’s more a snarl than human words and Jackson’s hand immediately flies away from Stiles who rubs his throat, eyes watering.

For a moment he can’t make out who it is – it’s not Scott, definitely not Scott – but from Jackson’s reaction he should have known.

Only one wolf can make another submit to him merely using the power of his voice.

It’s Derek Hale.

Jackson glowers at him, but then averts his eyes down to his feet, working his jaw in anger.

“Thanks,” Stiles says to Derek who looks at him silently for a few seconds.

Then he nods.

“Never mind. I owe your dad a lot. Can’t really let someone bully his son in front of my eyes.”

“Well.... alright,” Stiles says because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Having Derek Hale’s undivided attention is sort of – making him extremely uncomfortable.

“Where is Scott?” Derek addresses him and Stiles frowns.

“I thought he was talking to you.”

“He was, but he got away when a couple of betas discovered and challenged me.”

“Sorry, can’t help you there,” Stiles says and Derek nods.

“Alright. Scott’s your friend, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Okay. As his friend you should try and convince him to accept my offer. I feel like Scott might not know what’s good for him.”

Stiles blinks at Derek and his feeling of nervousness gives way to a faint irritation.

“I think Scott is pretty smart, and he knows best what’s good for him and what isn’t,” he says coolly – then his heart starts racing because, great, now he offended the alpha. Perfect.

But Derek just looks him up and down.

“You’re loyal,” he says. “Good. I appreciate that.”

Then, Jackson seems to have found his voice, and his innate arrogance.

“What do you want from McCall?” he spits out, but Stiles can hear that his voice is a little shaky. Apparently, without the backup of about two dozen other betas, Jackson is really intimidated by the alpha.

Derek slowly turns to face him.

He lifts his eyebrows.

“And... who are you?”

“Jackson,” Jackson says, too fazed at the fact that the alpha wouldn’t know an important name like his. Stiles has to bite back a laugh.

“Okay,” Derek says. “Shut the fuck up, Jackson.”

And then, to Stiles, “Say hi to your dad.”

Stiles nods and before Derek has rounded the corner, he starts hurrying in the direction of the parking lot himself, not too eager to confront Jackson’s anger and frustration and serve as his punchball as soon as the alpha is out of hearing range.

 

 

When he’s finally back in his room, Stiles lets out a long breath.

Wow.

What a day.

He leans against his bedroom door, eyes closed, feeling the exhaustion in every muscle even though he didn’t even really _play_ lacrosse.

His whole body is aching, but – it was sort of worth it. Jackson’s stupid face just now?

Priceless.

And Stiles is really curious to hear what Scott decided. Seems like he’s currently avoiding Derek and trying to buy more time, but from his, Stiles, perspective it does seem like becoming a member of Derek Hale’s pack would only have advantages.

But what he told Derek stands true.

In the end, it’s really Scott’s decision.

And whatever Jackson was talking about just now.

Not human?

What the hell.

Stiles snorts out a laugh.

He’s been thinking about what Jackson said when he was driving home and finally come to the conclusion that Jackson was, somehow, mocking him.

Whatever he thought he saw, or felt – just whatever. Jackson’s simply a guy who can’t bear to lose to anyone. He seems to despise Scott in particular and since Stiles is Scott’s new friend, of course he’d loathe him as well.

Stiles opens his eyes and lets out a sigh.

Well.

At least the feeling’s mutual.

Stiles gives his backpack a kick so it won’t be blocking the door. Then he peels out of his hoodie, throws it onto his bed. He’s so tired, he feels like crawling beneath the sheets and just falling asleep, but he really needs to do his homework. He’s got so much catching up to do.

But he won’t complain.

Trying to learn as much about werewolf anatomy as he can take in in an hour or so?

It could really be worse.

Stiles bends down, picks his backpack up.

Then he turns to walk over to his desk, but something catches his eye and he just stops.

Stands there, mouth open, mind a total blank, staring at - - -

 _it_.

Sitting there, on his nightstand,

in the semi-darkness of Stiles’ bedroom

looking a little worn

and with tooth marks

punched into the fabric

a leaf of grass still sticking to it

is

 

 

a lacrosse ball

 

 

 

\- - - - - -

 

Important Terms

**lycanthropoloy** ( _n._ ) - - 1. the science and study of werewolves; sub-discipline of _therianthropology_ 2\. the furry business 3. a ‘70s Indie rock band who landed their greatest and only hit with the 1974 single “Drown me in the River of Your Tears, Helena”

 **therianthropology** ( _n._ ) - - 1. the science and study of weres, founded and first conducted by the honorable Hierru Arrgentt (ca. 69 B.C.) 2. branch of study at college and university level

  1. **B.T.** ( _abb._ ) - - _Bachelor of Therianthropology_ \- - anglophone degree to be earned at the Beacon Hills Community College, Beacon Hills Academy, the Barranquitas Universidad, the Okakarara Institute and the Hong Kong Institute of Weres and the Supernatural in the Arts and a couple of other places in the world
  2. **M.T.** ( _abb._ ) - - _Master of Therianthropology_ \- - anglophone degree to be earned at the Beacon Hills Academy, the Barranquitas Universidad, the Okakarara Institute and the Hong Kong Institute of Weres and the Supernatural in the Arts and a couple of other places in the world
  3. **T.L**. ( _abb._ ) - - _typological lycanthropology_ ( _comp. n_.) - - 1) the classification/ grouping of factoids relating to werewolves 2) sub-discipline of _lycanthropoloy_ 3) “a bunch of long-ass lists. Quite frankly, I don’t see the point.” (1975 quote by F. Hopper Argent, professor of therianthropology at Beacon Hills Academy, Beacon Hills, CA, USA, 1942-1979)



 


	3. THE SPARK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit (July 20): oh my God, I want to answer all of your wonderful comments so, so badly!! (and there's a few from ch. 2 that I haven't answered yet too), but the keyboard on my laptop is currently broken and I have to painstakingly copy-paste every third letter >_> it takes FOREVER --- but as soon as this is fixed (unless: RIP laptop, who knows) - can't wait to write back, you guys are AMAZING!!  
> \---  
> thank you to all of my dear readers who have been bearing with me through long-ass chapters <3 thx for your support, comments and kudos  
> sooo, I tried keeping it short  
> then gave up  
> apparently, I'm utterly incapable of writing really short pieces; seriously, I can't - BUT I tried to make to make the whole thing faster-paced  
> I love that many of you have said they like the long chapters anyway - I'm so glad about that (bc see above, incapable etc.)  
> you're the best <3

 

 

There’s a small ceramic statue on the windowsill of Mrs. Allen’s living room.

It’s a maneki-neko, a Chinese waving cat, one of these tiny figurines in the shape of a sitting cat with their little paws raised. Some of them are simple statues in plastic or ceramic. Others are battery-powered, their paw endlessly waving at the people passing by. This one, the one on Mrs. Allen’s windowsill, however, is neither.

It’s a special model Mrs. Allen received from a friend of the family when she was barely sixteen.

It’s in standard white, its right paw raised, and what is so special about it cannot be seen with the bare eye: Mrs. Allen’s lucky cat figurine starts waving its paw whenever it detects magic.

Not just any kind of magic, but magic leaking out of a spark – uncontained magic, the most dangerous kind. When Mrs. Allen was a teenager and had just found out about what she was – what she had _become_ – the little ceramic figurine had served her as a reliable indicator of her own control, continually waving as long as she had still been unable to control her magic.

Because the newly awakened powers of a spark?

They’re unpredictable. It’s impossible to tell when and why they suddenly start acting up, but whenever they do, no one is safe anymore.

Now, the lucky cat sits in the middle of two potted plants and it stopped waving sixty-seven years ago, when Mrs. Allen defeated the so-called Green Dragon of gichiziibi-gakaabikaang, Saint Croix Falls, and finally managed to contain her immense powers within her body.

Something, however, is different about this day.

It’s Friday, 7:40 in the morning and ten seconds ago, the little figurine started waving frantically.

The old lady had been watering her dandelions and presently puts down her watering pot. With surprising swiftness she draws closer to the window and stares down at the lucky cat.

Then she raises her head and looks out the window, at the sparrows hopping around her lawn in the early morning mist, and over to the wall seaming her property. Right above the top row of red bricks she spots the head of a teenager with a sheepish expression on his face like he’s just barely awake.

It’s the sheriff’s son, Stiles Stilinski, passing by her property on his way to school, yawning and, from the looks of it, dragging his feet a little, visibly irritated by having to be awake so early in the morning.

“Mh,” Mrs. Allen harrumphs. She looks back down at the cat’s paw that is swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. “Mh. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.”

 

 

“Your Jeep wouldn’t start, mh?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Nope. Not even when I threatened to set it on fire. Stupid piece of shit thing...”

“Cheer up. Why don’t we take a look at it after school? See if we can fix it,” Scott says and pats Stiles on the shoulder.

Stiles winces.

His back is badly bruised from his encounters with Jackson the day before.

“Today?,” he mutters, rubbing his shoulder, teary-eyed. “We’ve got detention today.”

“Right.”

Scott grimaces.

“Completely forgot about that. Detention with Harris... damnit. Oh, man...”

“And isn’t your date with Allison today?”

A goofy smile appears on Scott’s face.

“Yeah... we’ll meet at seven. I should tell her that we got to meet here at school though. I just hope that Harris will have left us out by then. I’ll go look for her.”

“Wait... what? By seven?,” Stiles says slowly, “but that’s five hours! And we didn’t even do anything! Why are we being punished?,” but Scott is already running in the direction of the big double doors.

Unbelievable.

He just hopes that Scott was joking.

He’d rather lick a frogosaur than spend five hours locked in a room with Jackson and Harris.

Speaking of which.

Stiles can see Jackson with his gang of belligerent betas loitering about the school yard not far away from him, waiting for Derek Hale to arrive. Jackson looks exceedingly pissed today and Stiles is not really eager for a sequel of his encounters with this idiot so he turns around and sneaks away in the direction of the school building.

He slips inside just when a loud uproar breaks loose behind him and people start shouting, “ _He’s here! The alpha’s here! I’ll take you down today, Hale!_ ”

Stiles sighs. The big double doors slam shut behind him.

He can watch Derek Hale knock out fifty students any day and he’d rather catch up with Scott and hear how he decided, whether he’ll join the alpha’s exclusive pack or not.

Plus, there’s something he really needs to tell him.

 

 

 

The thing is this.

Stiles is losing his mind.

At least that’s what it feels like.

Yes, yes, he’s still dizzy and sort of nauseous, but that’s nothing to worry about. Might be a cold, might be the aftermath of food poisoning or whatever, he should be fine and healthy again within a few days, but – he’s sort of – not sure whether this _thing_ is going to go away again anytime soon.

It’s small and round and grey and furry with a white belly and big eyes and ears and tiny paws and it had already been there when Stiles opened his eyes this morning, sitting on his comforter and blinking at him and when he screamed, it dived into the open sock drawer and disappeared.

Then his dad came running into the room, gun in his hands, and Stiles couldn’t even check where it had gone.

He saw it again on his way to school, or, which would be more accurate, _them_.

Because, yes, there’s clearly more than one, with fur in different shades of grey and brown, but all of them with big spoon-shaped ears and snouts like a bunny.

Kinda cute, really.

Their eyes had been blinking at Stiles out of the tall grass on the edge of the road, from between the dense branches of shrubs and one of them with sandy brown fur had hopped out onto the sidewalk right in front of him, turned its little head, blinked twice and then scurried away and vanished beneath a parked car.

It’s the same one that is now sitting on Jackson’s desk, watching Stiles who’s leaning against the windowsill in the math classroom.

Stiles is turning a lacrosse ball in his hands – the very one that had vanished out of Jackson’s net, Stiles is a hundred percent certain, the tiny holes in it are unmistakably the teeth marks of a werewolf.

Stiles has no idea how it vanished from the lacrosse field and then turned up on his nightstand, not the faintest clue and he can’t come up with a reasonable explanation for it either, not even after flipping through his school books for hours yesterday night.

He should have told his dad, he should have told Scott, he should have told – _anyone_. Preferably a doctor.

But he hasn’t. He’s just sitting there, staring blankly at this stupid ball and trying to ignore the furry little creature on Jackson’s desk which is becoming increasingly difficult because it started pushing Jackson’s pens and textbooks off the edges of the desk. They land on the floor with a clutter, one after the other, red pens, blue pens, the math and history textbooks and – it’s distracting, okay?

Especially when you’re trying very hard to pretend that it’s all a figment of your imagination – that it’s all in your head.

Which it really is, Stiles knows that, yes, he checked each and every one of his textbooks and all he got from them was that he is experiencing classic hallucinations.

Of the schizophrenic sort.

Not of the supernatural sort.

It’s freaking maddening and he’s – he’s really scared, okay?

So, just hanging around in the empty classroom – almost empty – his back toward the window and all the hassle in front of the school, and turning the ball in his hands, that’s somehow soothing.

It helps him think.

“Stiles!”

“Mh? Corey?”

The pale kid takes a step into the room, then stops, looks over to where Stiles is standing. He’s panting, like he ran down the hallway.

“Stiles, I need to tell you something.”

“Everything alright? You look pale – er, _paler_. Than usual, I mean.”

Stiles slips the lacrosse ball into the pocket of his hoodie.

Thankfully, the thing on Jackson’s desk is gone.

“Mr. Harris – no, I mean, when I first – no, it’s your-”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Stiles says. “What the hell is so important that-”

“Your _blood_!”

“Wh-what?”

A faint shade of red creeps up Corey’s cheeks.

“It’s – it’s – your blood.”

“Er... okay, I know Scott said you wouldn’t harm me and, Corey, I _want_ to believe him, I do, I _really_ do – but if you’re trying to freak me out, congratulations, it’s working.”

“I – I’m not, I swear, I’m not,” Corey stutters. “It’s – I’ve been trying to tell you, but first you I couldn’t catch up with you and then Harris – he told me not to say anything.”

Stiles frowns at the pale, dark-haired kid who, admittedly, looks miserable, the way he’s staring down at his shoes.

Not like he’s trying to pull some sort of hoax on Stiles.

More like a troubled and deeply misunderstood teenager which – Stiles can relate to that.

So he says, “You’re not bullshitting me?”

“No, I swear, I _swear_!” Corey is shaking his head frantically.

“So you – you do want to eat me,” Stiles says and swallows. “Is that what you wanted to tell me – that you need help?”

Corey stares at him for a few seconds, wide-eyed.

Then he starts shaking his head again and he’s so nervous that it takes almost half a minute for him to get the words out.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” he says, a look of desperation on his face, “your blood – it’s _singing_.”

“Huh?”

“It’s – I never heard anything like it, I – and it keeps changing. When I – shook your hand in – in the bathroom, I felt it and that’s why I shifted, it was so – _exciting_.”

He blushes more deeply, eyes still averted to the ground.

All Stiles is doing is staring at him open-mouthed.

“And Harris told me I’m never to speak to you about it and I’m not to mention it to anyone else, but yesterday during lacrosse practice, I _smelled_ it all the way up to the bleachers, it’s unlike anything I ever smelled and today – I couldn’t even see you in front of the school, there were so many people and scents, but then I – I _heard_ it.”

Now, whatever Stiles expected – that certainly wasn’t it.

“Sorry, did you say you – er, you – _heard_ it? My blood?”

A nod.

“Like... _ba-dum ba-dum_? Like that? Kind of like – a heart?”

“No, I _told_ you, it’s _singing_.”

“Maybe you’re hungry?”

Corey is shaking his head, exasperated.

“It – it scares me,” he says to his shoes with a barely audible whisper. “It’s so powerful, when I hear it I can’t focus on anything else. And I know Harris is watching you – his senses are so much better than mine, better developed.”

Stiles swallows again.

His mouth, all of a sudden, is very dry.

“So... so what – do you mean, like – am I sick or something?”

But this is the moment Jackson chooses to push the door open. It hits the wall and Jackson stomps into the room. He has dirt on his cheeks, a black eye and his nose is bleeding all over his torn, expensive shirt.

Then, behind him, everyone else is slowly strolling into the room like the first period didn’t start ten minutes ago and they have all the time in the world. The humans among Stiles’ classmates are chatting about Derek Hale’s new record while the wolves take their seats meekly.

Corey shakes his head as if to clear it and starts again in a low voice, “Stiles, I’ve been trying to find out what it is and I think – I think I got it, yesterday night, I think you are-”

“What the _fuck_ is this?!”

Jackson has reached his desk and is staring down at the pile of pens and textbooks on the ground in front of it.

“What the fuck, Stilinski! Do you think that’s funny? How dare you touch my stuff?”

“Wh-what?”

Surprised, Stiles looks over to Jackson.

“I know you did this, you little fucker, you were the only one in here!”

“No, Stiles, listen to me, you – it’s _dangerous_ , you have to-,” Corey starts again, panic rising in his voice.

“Get _lost_ , you freak,” Jackson says and with three long strides he’s in front of them. He shoves Corey who hits the ground hard, his dark hair falling into his pale face, covering it almost completely. He raises his head, glowering at Jackson and Stiles is surprised to see that there’s no fear in Corey’s eyes.

“You’re going to regret this,” he mutters. “You have no idea what you’re up ag-”

“ _Shut the fuck up_. You sicken me. Get him out,” Jackson grits out. Two bulky guys with beat-up, swollen faces whose names Stiles just can’t seem to remember grab Corey by the shirt. The windiigo doesn’t protest when they throw him out into the hallway.

“Now to you,” Jackson hisses, staring at Stiles with pure hatred in his eyes, but he’s interrupted by a shrill voice and, despite himself, Jackson freezes.

“What the _hell_ was that out there. Mh, Jackson? Do you think it’s, oh, I don’t know – _fun_ to watch you fail every single freakin’ morning? Mh? Do you think, like – oh, Lydia just has nothing better to do that she-”

Stiles stops listening.

He takes a step back, trying to calm his heart that’s beating heavily against his rib cage.

Screw this massive jerk.

He rounds his desk and takes his seat and then Ms. Hinako, the English teacher, limps into the room. Scott sneaks in behind her.

And then the English lesson starts, but, somehow, no one seems to be really focused.

A weird tension has settled on the room that just stays there, hanging in the air like dense fog for the rest of the period. Jackson has assumed his trademark posture expressing that he’s simultaneously foaming _and_ humiliated, Lydia is biting her nails and keeps glowering at her boyfriend, Allison looks simply uncomfortable and Scott, once again, seems deep in thought, a very un-Scott-like frown locked on his face, inner turmoil folded into every single crease.

And then, the stuff that’s going on inside of Stiles – in his head, you might say.

He keeps squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing them, but every single time he peels back his eyelids again, the colors jump at him as if the whole world were a weird inside-out jack-in-the-box that Stiles is trapped inside of.

Something is definitely wrong with him, it’s very clear now, he feels – he feels so weird.

Unstable.

Thank God, the week is almost over.

Stiles longs for a weekend, just a couple of days of silence. Hit pause on all this craziness.

Soon, Stiles.

Soon.

Relax, lean back, surely everything is going to be alright.

If only the room stopped slipping out of focus.

 

 

 

***

 

 

The day flies by as if Stiles were slipping through time.

One moment he gets up from his seat in the English classroom, the next he’s already sitting down for math.

 

 

Then he bites into his burger and blinks, realizing only now that he’s in the cafeteria.

Disgusted, he spits the half-chewed up piece of meat into his napkin, stares down at it thinking ‘ _What the fuck, what the literal_ \---

and

 

 

looks up again at the blackboard on which it says

_Night of a Thousand Crystals, June 30, 1865 - - > Windiigo Conspiracy - -> War of 1865 -> Grand Confederacy 1865-1910_

Stiles blinks.

History laid out on the blackboard like a long, pointed stick that someone forcefully stabbed through time because right now, to Stiles, time feels broad and flat and it’s _everywhere_ because

they don’t even have history today.

Their paper is only due on Monday – and today, today is Friday.

Friday.

The weekend ahead of him.

Not Monday, the weekend in his back.

Or – is it?

Their history teacher, Mrs. Redbird is drawing a long arrow symbolizing the rectilinear progression of time beneath the words on the blackboard, from left to right, and Scott turns in his seat, a worried look on his face and whispers, “Stiles, are you okay?”

 

 

 

“Stiles. Stiles!”

He’s looking into the hazel eyes of Derek Hale whose dark brows are furrowed. He looks annoyed.

“Are you even listening to me?”

 

 

 

 

“Stiles,” Scott says. “Man, you’ve got to say something, _anything_. What’s the matter?”

Stiles is staring at him, mouth agape.

What the literal hell just happened.

“I – I...”

He’s being shaken, Scott has grabbed him by the shoulders and is shaking him and Stiles’ head bobs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like the paw of a lucky cat on one of those Japanese figurines.

“Stiles! Holy hell, stop scaring the shit out of me!”

And Stiles – he gets it.

That Scott is scared.

Because he is scared, too.

Hell, he’s _frozen_ on the inside because what he can see now, what is there right in front of his eyes, so real that he can almost touch it, is Derek Hale _again_ , but this time he’s in his trademark leather jacket with red dust on his leather shoes and he is looking down at the remainders of a red brick wall, a guilty look on his face and when he opens his mouth, it’s to say,

“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Allen, I’ll send someone to fix it.”

Then it stops and Derek’s gone, and so is the sidewalk, the brick wall and Mrs. Allen – the whole scene that Stiles experienced _last Sunday_ – and that he lived through again just now.

Okay, not really _gone_.

He feels like – like it’s still there for him to tap into it.

Only, now it’s operating in the background, no longer consuming his whole vision.

Stiles takes a deep breath.

Then, he slowly sinks to his knees.

Holy.

Fuck.

“Stiles...”

Scott is there next to him and the whole room slams back into focus, so painfully that it hurts Stiles’ eyes.

Now he knows where he is again – and _when_.

They’re in the library of Beacon Hills High, taking a short break before their detention with Harris.

Stiles lifts his eyes up to the big clock on the wall, above a door behind which he can hear the distinct _srrrrrrr_ of a copier.

It’s Friday afternoon, 1:47 p.m.

They’re supposed to be in the biology classroom in thirteen.

He’s here again, he’s finally here again and his hands are shaking.

“Stiles!” Scott says again and he has him by the shoulders. “Okay that’s it, we’re going to the nurse’s office.”

“No,” Stiles finally grits out and it feels like speaking for the first time.

For the very first time.

In the beginning was the word and it sounds –

 _Strange_.

But come to think of it, everything around him does.

“What do you mean no, are you kidding me? Your heart just went absolutely fucking crazy and then you started shaking and apparently you can’t stand up straight anymore. I’d say you were having a panic attack, but – it’s – it’s _odd_ , we need to get you to-”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says and it’s hilarious because he’s never been further from fine. Maybe that one time at his mom’s funeral, when someone offered him a glass of water and he said it was okay, no thanks.

“You’re literally shivering.”

“A... panic... attack. Yes. That’s it.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in and out. He lets his head sink back against the shelf. His hair grazes the backs of books labeled HG 1234a to HG 1234y – Vonnegut – and he has _no fucking clue_ how he even knows that.

You see, he never turned around.

Oh, something’s _very_ wrong with Stiles.

“And I....,” using his voice – so _strange_ , he’s _never_ going to get used to it, “I was...like.... _here_ the whole time?”

Scott blinks at him. He’s still got his hands on Stiles’ shoulders like they’re about to go out on the lacrosse field and he’s giving him a pep talk.

“What do you mean, were you here? Like – here with me? No, because for a second there you seemed totally out of it.”

“No, I mean, like – here in the library. At school. The whole day. Er – physically. With – my body.”

Scott stares at him and in his big brown eyes, Stiles can detect it.

Fear.

For him.

“Yes,” Scott says and it sounds calm. “Why?”

Stiles is staring down at the floor in front of his sneakers.

“I saw... I – I _felt_ – it was...”

It’s impossible.

He _can’t_.

He can’t tell Scott because, _how_?

How in the thirteen confederacies is he supposed to put words to _this_?

To whatever the hell just happened.

There’s no words.

Not because it’s, oh – so shocking or anything. Yes, he’s shaken up, but that’s not the reason.

It’s because all of this? What’s been going on inside his head – and around him?

It’s beyond fucking language.

He thinks about it for a moment while Scott is waiting patiently, still not withdrawing his hands.

Maybe he could try – find similes.

Work with approximation.

“I felt like – like I was slipping _through time_.”

Silence.

“Literally. _Through_ time. Like time is wide open spaces, you know, and there’s layers of it – layer on layer on layer and I – just stepped right through. And you’re not _supposed_ to step through. And I – this happened before. Do you – do you think I’m like – sick? Is there some kind of – of magical illness or something that can make people lose their minds when they come to Beacon Hills? Or – maybe I touched something cursed? You know – like a cursed necklace or something?”

Because Scott is staring at him like _that_ , Stiles falls silent, crooked smile regarding the ill-fitting Harry Potter comparison wiped right off his face.

Then, suddenly, his cellphone buzzes and, with trembling fingers, he reaches into the pocket of his sweater, pulls it out, drags his finger across the display, once, twice.

He’s so nervous and stressed, he needs several attempts to unlock it.

“Anything important?” Scott says and he’s so eerily calm, a shudder runs down Stiles’ spine.

“My dad. He’s going to pick me up after detention. You know, because my Jeep...,” and he trails off.

“Mh,” Scott harrumphs.

Nods.

“And Allison, is she going to....?”

“Yeah. She’ll be here around seven.”

“So, you think we’ll be in there that long?”

“I really do. Detention with Harris is the worst.”

“Okay,” Stiles nods.

Another silence falls over them.

Suddenly, Stiles starts, agitated, “Listen, I’m – sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, dude, it’s fine, you freaked out-”

“I really thought, but – never mind. Besides, we shouldn’t, like – I shouldn’t say stuff like that here, or five werewolves are going to be talking about what a freak I am next week.”

And he really, really is.

A freak.

“Nonsense. It’s Friday afternoon and this is the library. There’s literally no one here – except for Mrs. Redbird, she’s in the copier room,” and Scott nods over to the door, a few feet away from them. “I know it’s her. But she’s human, she can’t hear us.”

He considers Stiles for a moment.

“And you’re not a freak. I forbid you to say that ever again. Can you describe to me exactly what just happened? Step by step so I can understand?”

Stiles sighs.

“If you want to dive into the craziness of Stiles Stilinski’s brain... go ahead. But we should really get going. I bet Harris doesn’t like people showing up late for detention.”

“Oh fuck, you’re right. He’s going to keep us all night if we’re late.”

Stiles snorts, but when Scott doesn’t join in, he pales a little.

A little more.

“You’re not being serious? Awww, what the hell, man... what kind of a medieval tyrant is he...”

“He’s Harris,” Scott simply says and then he has his hand wrapped around Stiles’ upper arm, pulls him to a standing position.

“While we’re walking, tell me. And don’t forget to explain why you have a lacrosse ball in your sweater that smells like Jackson’s spit. Strikes me as kind of an odd souvenir.”

Stiles sighs again.

He’s on his feet now and he’s swaying only a little.

They set off in the direction of the biology classroom and Stiles, very reluctantly, tries putting words to what has been happening to him throughout the past days – the really weird stuff, that is. Since Corey’s surprise appearance this morning he thinks – he’s pretty sure now – that it’s all connected, but how?

What does it _mean_?

All the dizziness, the odd colors and weird super-real flashbacks and – flashforwards?

If Mrs. Redbird draws a long arrow below a row of dates during history next Monday, Stiles is going to freak out, he’s going to totally lose it, okay?

He knows he left normal behind when he left his old room, his beloved meemaw and his old life behind and maybe, yeah, maybe he’s really just homesick.

Maybe Beacon Hills is just freaking him out – majorly, yeah.

Maybe.

But the thing is this.

Stiles doesn’t feel like he’s going to faint, or throw up or scream.

He feels like he’s about to peel out of his skin and, man.

That’s a shitty feeling.

 

 

 

 

Mrs. Allen is contemplating her vase.

Or, well – it’s shaped like a vase, but you definitely couldn’t put flowers in it, that’s for sure.

It doesn’t really have a hole in it, nor does it seem to be at all hollow on the inside.

It’s more like a white-ish-grey, solid piece of cement.

But the vase shape makes it prettier, you see.

“Yes. Yes, I think I should pack this – it will definitely come in handy, yes...”

And she wraps her shriveled, old fingers around its neck, picks it up from the coffee table.

Then she holds it up – even though it must be quite heavy – lifts it over her head and now it looks less like a vase and a lot more like a club.

The old woman turns around, hobbles over to where her suitcase is open on the floor. It has an old-fashioned flower pattern, wheels on one side, and is filled with – with _things_ , the oddest things, some of them crawling and trying to escape.

“No, you stay in there. Just for a couple of hours,” Mrs. Allen mutters. She bends down, reaches out and catches something that looks like a dustbunny with her free hand, only it’s, somehow, _alive_. Then she tucks it between the hideous large-pattern dresses in her suitcase.

Drops the vase on top.

Then she quickly closes the suitcase, zips it up.

Straightens her back and pushes her glasses back up her nose.

A determined look has appeared on her face and when she props the trolley up, and grabs the handle there is a glint in her eyes, a glimmer – like a spark that’s burning deep down inside of her, sweeping across time and space with a purple, all-consuming fire.

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t get very far in his story. All he manages to relate to Scott are incoherent fragments and confusing details and then they’re already at the biology classroom.

Scott reaches out for the handle, then throws a worried look back at Stiles.

He doesn’t say anything though.

Stiles knows that Scott can hear two hearts beating inside the room.

“Mr. ... _McCall_. Why so – reluctant?” a faint voice is saying. “Step in. I don’t.... _bite_.”

When Stiles and Scott are inside, the door shut behind them with a very final sounding click, there is still a smirk on Harris’ face, as if he were amused by his own capacity to joke.

Jackson is already there. He looks cleaned up and perfectly healed and is glowering at Stiles and Scott as if it were their fault he has to be here.

As if it hadn’t been he who had slammed Stiles into the lockers but the other way around.

Stiles immediately feels anger rise in his throat.

“Mr. ... _Stilinski_ ,” Harris hisses with the trademark dramatic pause in between words, “I am going to – _repeat_ it... one last time. _Sit. Down_.”

Stiles turns to him and finds Harris piercing him with his watery blue eyes, face a deadpan.

He nods, drops his gaze to the floor and walks over to where Scott is already unpacking his textbooks, as far away from Jackson as physically possible.

Then there’s only the noise of pens scratching across paper, and their combined, calm breathing, or – in Stiles’ case – not completely calm.

Scott has been absolutely right.

Detention with Harris must be the most uncomfortable Stiles has ever been and he can tell from Jackson’s posture that not even a smug bastard like he can just shake off the rattling noise of Harris inhaling slowly, almost thoughtfully – as if wanting to take everything in.

Not like a werewolf would, no, but almost as if savoring the different scents.

As if he were in fact standing in front of a rich buffet and still undecided on where to start.

Then there’s the added problem of Harris’ lidless stare.

He doesn’t even try to hide it, just sits there, hands folded on his desk in front of him, gaze transfixed on the three boys, perfectly immobile, his nostrils flaring with every long, slow intake of breath.

It’s fucking creepy.

After about fifteen minutes, however, Stiles starts having problems other than Harris’ predatory presence.

His head – it’s doing _it_ again.

It feels fuzzy, numbed and almost like it’s hovering a foot above his torso.

And, what’s worse, the room is slipping out of focus again and Stiles feels right on the edge to –

to _what_ exactly he can’t even tell, but he feels like something is about to happen and he’s struggling, clutching his pen, pushing it – the _thing_ – whatever it is – back down inside of him and it’s the oddest feeling.

Like dipping your entire hand into a pot of cool, silky sirup. It’s dense and smooth and you can stir it and work it through your fingers, but in the end, there’s nothing you can do to contain it.

He’s sweating.

He knows Scott is watching him, is listening to his heartbeat and when Stiles raises his head he looks directly into Harris’ eyes that are narrowed and not flicking at Scott or Jackson again, no.

They have settled on Stiles and there they remain and Stiles – he feels like he’s going to fucking scream.

Then, suddenly, it’s gone again.

Not gone away completely, but not pulling at Stiles from the inside anymore.

Stiles inhales deeply and, with shaky hands, finally opens his history textbook to continue his essay on the Windiigo Conspiracy.

 

 

When Harris suddenly moves, Stiles jumps a little in his chair.

“You’re free – to go,” he says slowly. Stiles lifts his eyes up to the big clock above the door. It’s ten past seven.

No wonder Harris’ words startled Stiles out of his thoughts. His teacher has neither spoken nor moved even once within the last four hours.

Stiles slowly closes his textbook and starts packing up his stuff. He’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that Harris is still watching him and – did the guy just lick his lips?

He fucking did.

Unbelievable.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles mutters and they walk out without even looking at Jackson.

“What’s he doing?” Scott whispers and Stiles stops and turns. Scott is nodding back at Harris who is bent over a notebook, covering the pages swiftly with small black letters.

Stiles just shrugs. He’s really done with wasting thoughts on this creep today.

He has literally no more brain space left.

“No idea. Writing fanfiction? Who knows.”

 

 

 

“Hey McCall!”

They’re out front now, the school building in their back. Allison spotted them and is walking over to them, waving and smiling at Scott, apparently not angry that Scott is fifteen minutes late.

“McCall!” – louder now, but they simply ignore Jackson. Stiles is pretty sure that he’s just looking for trouble and Scott seems to think the same thing because he rolls his eyes.

“Scott!”

Now that’s a voice Stiles did not expect – he should have, yes, but he really didn’t and immediately upon hearing it – and recognizing it – his heart starts pounding.

His stupid fucking heart.

However, he’s not ready to admit to himself that he sort of has a crush on Derek Hale.

Not yet.

“Scott, wait!”

Scott finally stops and turns, but only because Allison has almost caught up with them. She’s beaming at Scott and Scott blushes and grins back at her.

Allison looks absolutely stunning, she’s wearing black tights, a black short dress and pink lipstick.

Scott should be allowed to simply enjoy her presence without having to deal with either Derek or Jackson, so Stiles says, “Go. I’ll stall them.”

“But-”

“Just go. She’s waiting.”

“Thank you, man,” Scott says, putting his hands together and taking a quick bow, “I owe you.”

And he quickly sets off, over to where Allison is waiting for him.

“Scott, wait,” Derek says – even though with him, it sounds more like a command and Stiles can see Scott hesitate, but then he straightens his back and simply walks on.

“Hey-”

“Can’t you give him a few more days?” Stiles pipes up and Derek Hale stops and turns to him with a look on his face like he’s surprised to find him there which –

Admittedly, hurts a tiny bit.

“Give him-” Derek starts, slowly, incredulous.

Stiles can see Jackson stand a few feet away from them, hands in his pockets and eyes narrowed, not even pretending that he’s not listening to every word they’re saying.

“Give him a few more days,” Stiles repeats quickly, slurring the words. Again, this man’s eyes on him, they just – “It’s... like – a big decision.”

“So?” Derek says, blinking. “But it’s an _easy_ decision.”

Then, louder and in Scott’s direction, “It shouldn’t even have to be a decision.”

Scott finally turns.

“I’m waiting,” Derek says and he crosses his leatherjacketed arms in front of his chest.

Stiles can see Scott sigh deeply and when Stiles opens his mouth to address Derek again, “It’s okay, Stiles. I already made my decision.”

And, even louder.

“No, Derek. Thank you for the offer, but I will _not_ join your pack.”

Silence.

The only person not looking surprised by this announcement is Allison – either because Scott told her all about it or because she already suspected.

Stiles quickly turns his head to see the look on Jackson’s face and he is not disappointed. Jackson’s mouth is half-open and there’s complete and utter shock written all over his features.

Stiles can’t help it – his lips have widened into a big grin and, no, he’s not going to suppress it. He’s going to take it all in, file every detail of Jackson’s shock and disappointment away in his brain.

“Why the hell not?” Derek is saying now and while he doesn’t look as shocked as Jackson, Stiles can clearly see that he did not expect a negative answer.

That’s like offering someone a million dollars and then just getting a plain and simple, but very civil no.

“Because your betas hate me,” Scott says back, “And because you’re so arrogant to think that being in your pack is all anyone could ever want.”

Stiles can see Derek blink, once, then a second time. That’s the most unkind thing Stiles has heard Scott say so far, but, like everything with Scott, it’s spoken from the heart.

“Excuse me?” Derek finally manages to get out before a lot of things happen at the same time.

The first is a sudden rush of – _something_ – that almost knocks the wind out of Stiles’ lungs. It just happens, hits him, out of fucking nowhere and it’s powerful and flaming hot and – for a moment, he can neither hear nor see anything anymore. He knows he stumbled – and there’s things crawling at the edges of his visions, floating through the air and hiding out in trees and – even _the trees themselves_ – he can see them now, oh, so clearly.

Everything is so clear now.

He looks up and catches Derek Hale staring at him, a look of befuddlement on his face.

Then he hears a shrill voice, going “Jackson. Jackson!! Where _have_ you been, I _told_ you to wait by the library!”

It’s Lydia stampeding toward her boyfriend who’s rooted in place and staring at Stiles like everyone else is.

Then someone is shouting, “Get away from him. GET AWAY FROM MY SON!”

His dad.

It’s his dad and he’s running toward them.

Right.

They were supposed to meet in the parking lot.

For a second Stiles is convinced his dad is talking to Jackson, but then he yells, “Alpha!! Get the hell away from my son!” and Stiles doesn’t understand anything anymore and, from the looks of it, neither does Derek.

He doesn’t pay any attention to the sheriff either.

He’s just standing there, rooted in place, eyes locked with Stiles.

Then a purple film settles on Stiles’ vision, his whole world is pulsating with flecks of energy and that’s it, everything just – _tilts_.

He can’t hold it in anymore.

It’s only then that he realizes that _that’s_ what he should have been doing.

Not ignoring.

 _Containing_ it.

It’s too late now.

Too late forever.

 

 

 

Scott does not have the faintest clue what happened.

All he knows is that he detected something _off_ about his friend, about Stiles the exact same moment that Derek did – like an aura that was suddenly surrounding him.

An aura of energy.

Of sheer power.

He was staring at Stiles for about a second or two, stupefied, not comprehending – and then he reacted, took a leap at Allison and pulled her with him to the ground, burying her under his body, covering her completely, clutching his hands over her ears.

Then Stiles just – went off. Like a bomb.

Everything lit up, and then it just rolled over them, a storm that would pick up everything in its way, rocks, leaves, branches and suck them toward a center – toward _Stiles_ – who –

“Allison!” Scott is yelling, but the he can’t even hear his own words, there’s a roaring and howling in the air and Scott’s ears are ringing with it.

Noises from the dawn of time.

They take up room, they’re expanding and pressing down on Scott who can feel Allison move beneath him and he tries to withstand the immense force so it won’t crush them both.

The first thing he sees when he finally manages to lift his head – is _Stiles_.

But – is it really?

Surely it couldn’t –

But, no, there’s no doubt, it’s Stiles who is standing there, arms outstretched, head taken far back into his neck and he’s gazing skywards, his eyes burning purple, rocks and leaves and branches and – everything – whirling around him.

Scott can hardly breathe.

Never before has he witnessed – _felt_ – that kind of power and he’s shaking, he knows he is, tears streaming down his face.

Stiles is – he’s life itself and dancing around him are the planets, suns, the universe, all of it, and – it’s almost too much to bear.

Scott can’t see anything else, not a glimpse of the others, except for what looks like an elderly lady with a trolley on wheels who, incredibly, is wobbling through the storms of worlds as if it were a light breeze.

She’s almost with him, Stiles, now, and she’s raising something that looks like a vase – no, a _club_ –

and then Scott’s vision goes black and he collapses on top of Allison who’s screaming, who has been screaming the whole time, only no one heard,

her voice, like everything else, has been sucked into the vortex of time and space,

of the Gods themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And Stiles comes to with a gasp.

Before he knows _where_ he is, _when_ he is or _what_ he is, he’s already sitting up, and –

_he doesn’t understand._

“There, there...,” a voice is saying. “Don’t cry.”

Stiles touches his fingers to his cheeks – _he has cheeks_ – and they’re wet.

“Water,” he says.

“Yes, hon,” the voice says back. “Stiles.”

“Stiles?”

“That’s your name. Stiles.” And then, “Here. Have a cup of tea.”

Without comprehension, Stiles takes the steaming cup from two white, shriveled hands. Then two dark brown ones reach out and close around Stiles’, steady them so he doesn’t spill the –

“Lemon.”

“Yes, hon. Dr. Deaton’s favorite.”

Stiles is staring down at the cup, aware that it’s hot, but channeling the heat, sucking it out of the liquid through the ceramic walls of the cup.

“Incredible,” a male voice says gently and the woman – Stiles remembers now, her name just pops up, she’s _Mrs. Allen_ – responds, “Yes, Alan. He will be great.”

“He’s a spark,” the other voice says softly, “greatness – terrible greatness is an inherent part of that.”

“But with that amount of control already and – his powers – I’ve never seen anything like it before and I’ve known _five_ sparks, including you and myself. He opened a _world gate_ , Alan, all by himself, and almost sucked everything living into it. I could just barely contain it and keep everyone in the immediate vicinity anchored.”

Stunned silence ensues.

Then Mrs. Allen lets out a hoarse cackle.

“When _I_ awoke, I accidentally killed my sister and a few neighbors’ kids... the power – just tore their bodies to shreds, but it didn’t even make a crease in the timespace continuum.”

This statement makes Stiles blink and then slowly turn his head.

The room – the one in which the elderly lady, Mrs. Allen, is talking with a tall man in a white lab coat – is one of the many rooms Stiles perceives right at this very moment, and it’s the room he chooses to tap into because he feels it’s the right thing to do.

He wants to hear more of the story even though it seems to be an incredibly sad one. Mrs. Allen is exuding vibes of deep, old grief and Stiles – he aches for her.

“They died?” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. Hypothetically he’s familiar with that word, has heard it said many times, but – when his lips form around it, he realizes that’s it’s completely empty of meaning.

“You mean,” frown deepening, “they slipped through?”

“Through?” the elderly woman responds. “What do you mean by _through_?”

“Time,” Stiles says and he lets out a chuckle. The word and what he associates with it – _has been_ associating with it – is hilarious.

He looks up and sees the two creatures staring at him in confusion.

“You _are_ ,” he starts, slowly. “And your name is Mrs. Allen...”

The elderly lady nods. Loose strands of white hair are floating around her head even though she’s very particular about her hair, always has been.

Stiles snort out another laugh.

Those words again.

_Has been._

“And I’m Dr. Alan Deaton,” the man says and he advances, extends his hand.

Stiles slowly raises his, shakes Dr. Deaton’s hand in mild amazement.

That name does ring a bell, but his memories – those flickers of personal emotion and individual experience – only return very slowly, very reluctantly. There’s so many others that Stiles can simply reach into, it’s confusing.

He has to stay very focused.

 “Stiles,” the man pipes up, and he’s eyeing him closely. “Do you know what happened?”

Stiles shakes his head.

“Do you know – what _Stiles_ means?”

Stiles nods.

“It means narrow. _Too_ narrow.”

Mrs. Allen and Dr. Deaton exchange looks.

“His brain is trying to cope with the incredible powers running through him. It might be a while before he’ll be fully here again.”

“I’m here and there,” Stiles says, “and everywhere.”

“Maybe you should hurry the process. He needs to be clear to understand what happened. He needs to learn what he’s grown into and how to deal with it before – before _everyone_ knows,” Mrs. Allen says.

“I think it’s too late for that,” Dr. Deaton gives back. “But I should be able to help him, relieve him of this reality at least. It won’t be any harm.”

He approaches Stiles who watches him with amazement.

Half a minute later, Dr. Deaton has sunk a long needle deep into Stiles’ right arm and Stiles – he accepts it.

And closes his eyes.

 

 

 

When he opens them the next time, it all comes back to him within seconds _and_ as a sequence. Detention, then he and Scott in front of the school, Allison is there, then Jackson and Derek and Lydia and his dad and –

then _what_?

His heart starts racing, his hands shaking.

“My dad,” he says out loud, “Scott, where – what happened?”

He looks around and knows immediately where he is even though he’s never been here before. Not before today at least.

This is the Beacon Hills animal clinic and he remembers waking up on the examination table before – earlier – and talking with the doctor and the elderly woman called Mrs. Allen, but the memory feels strange, _off_.

Like someone else’s.

Now the room is empty except for –

“They’re not here,” Derek Hale says and he steps up to the table slowly. “They’re outside, cleaning up the chaos you caused.”

“What?” Stiles says and he pales, “Chaos – what happened? Where – are they safe? My dad, Scott, Allison, are they okay?”

He knows he did something – terrible.

He doesn’t know how or why, he just _knows_.

 “Everyone’s fine,” Derek says. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Thanks to Mrs. Allen.”

“Mrs. Allen...?”

“She knew something would happen and showed up right in time. Extended a protective spell on everything alive within a one mile radius. She and Deaton both worked to – _contain_ you.”

“Contain... me?”

Not comprehending.

“But – what’s wrong with me?”

Derek averts his gaze to the ground.

“That’s not for me to tell.”

Stiles frowns, his lips quivering.

Derek makes it sounds like he did something horrible and – he swallows because Derek might be right, he probably did.

Then the door opens and Dr. Deaton steps into the room.

“Stiles,” he simply says, quickly walking up to him. Stiles realizes only now that he has a pillow beneath his head. A grey blanket is covering his body, but he’s still lying on a hard table, his limbs stiff and cold.

Like a corpse waiting to be cut up.

Stiles shivers.

“ _Stiles_ ,” a little sharper and Stiles’ eyes flick back to the doctor’s face. “Stay here with me.”

Stiles nods, stupefied.

There’s images in his head, sounds, colors, and noise and –

They’re beautiful, calling out to him.

Songs from the dawn of time.

Stiles understands that it’s easy to lose yourself in their mesmerizing vortex, multiple worlds and raw life. Just unhook and travel through –

“ _Alpha_!”

“Yes, doctor?” Derek’s voice is neutral, but Stiles can sense conflicted emotions – a turmoil of feelings – sweeping through Derek’s brain and heart. It’s difficult to put words to them, but – guilt, maybe, sorrow, anger, pure emotion, sweetness, white and blue and green, a little red as well –

“He’s slipping away. I need you here.” The words sound urgent and Derek quickly steps up to the table. Stiles’ eyes flick over to his face, his dark and handsome face, those deep eyes that are watching him.

“What do I have to do?”

“His hand,” Deaton says, “ _Now_.”

Warm, strong fingers curl into his, hold them tight and Stiles – he blinks down at his right hand in confusion and wonder. Then raises his eyes to Derek’s face. He looks grim and tense and almost as if standing still and just staying there is difficult for him.

Stiles can sense pure strength vibrate through these limbs that could break him apart in the blink of an eye.

“Good,” Deaton says, “That’s good.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Derek retorts.

“You’re the alpha.” Stiles can see the doctor move around at the edges of his vision.

“You’re grounding him. Only you can do this.”

 “What’s that?” Derek says and, for some reason, his grip on Stiles’ hand tightens.

“Poppy seed and bark from a baobab tree.”

“What for?” Derek inquires. Stiles can feel that his character naturally clashes with Deaton’s. Deaton’s calm and slow answers anger Derek and Stiles knows that this isn’t the first time the doctor is reluctant to volunteer information.

“The baobab further grounds him. The poppy seed weakens him and slows him down – just in case.”

“Will it be painful?”

“...no,” Deaton responds and he takes a second to flick his gaze over to Derek – then back at the syringe in his right hand.

That’s when Stiles starts reacting, when his brain is finally fully awake.

“Er, that’s a _big_ needle, do you really have to-”

“I’m afraid so, Stiles,” Deaton says, smiling sympathetically. “But I’m glad you’d say that. Last time you didn’t even react. You’re quickly improving. Soon you’ll be yourself again.”

Stiles flinches when the needle breaks through the skin on his upper arm. Derek holds his hand down, keeps him in place, rooted.

“For now.”

 

 

 

 

Waking up the third time completely disorients Stiles.

He comes to to exhaustion and a major headache.

He has been slipping in and out of consciousness for a while now and it’s his dad’s voice that finally and definitely brings him back.

“... to stay here now?,” Stiles can hear him say.

“No,” a calm, soothing voice responds. So Dr. Deaton’s still with him. Stiles moves his hips and legs. They feel stiff and hurt a little.

Yep.

Still on the examination table.

Doesn’t this town have a hospital or something? Or, just like – regular beds?

“Stiles is stable enough now. We need to go over a few emergency procedures with him as soon as he wakes up, but other than that, I think you’re good to go home.”

A pause.

Then Dr. Deaton speaks again.

“Derek. How’s the cleaning up doing? Has the press been notified?”

Then Stiles can hear the door open. He turns his head just in time to see Derek Hale walk into the room.

“I’m afraid so. I have already made an official statement – without mentioning _the spark_ of course – and urged everyone to stay calm.”

“Is it working?” Dr. Deaton says with a look at one of his charts.

Derek’s gaze darkens.

“No.”

“I thought so,” the sheriff chimes in. “I should probably go, but – no. Parrish can take care of it for another hour. I’m going to take Stiles home first.”

Now the eyes of all three men find Stiles. His dad is the first one to speak – and the only one who rushes to his side.

“Son! Good God...”

He tries to hug Stiles, but it’s a rather clumsy attempt because Stiles is still stretched out on a table. Plus, open display of affection?

Not really. Not with his dad anyway.

“God, Stiles,” his dad repeats, and then he’s just staring down at his son and shaking his head as if searching the right words.

“I knew – _feared_ – I-”

“What?” Stiles says and he can feel anger rising in his throat. He struggles to sit up – realizing with relief that he’s fully clothed and no one pulled any strange experiments on him – and, fighting against the heaviness in his limbs, says, “Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“You’re a spark,” Deaton simply says. “And the most powerful one I have ever met.”

He considers Stiles for a moment.

“And I’ve met every spark who’s currently alive.”

 _Alive_.

There’s that word again.

It bugs Stiles, tugs at him, but he shakes the feeling off.

“That can’t be – I can’t be – a _what_?”

“You’re a spark,” Deaton repeats.

Stiles just stares at him which the doctor seems to take as an invitation to explain in-depth, because he continues, “All the symptoms you’ve been experiencing – including the rift in timespace that you caused today – are related to your newly awakened powers.”

He pauses.

“And they are dangerous powers. You need to learn how to contain them as quickly as possible.”

Stiles is still just staring at the man. He heard him alright, but his brain just won’t compute the words.

“So – so the things that – I’ve seen – next week and – and last week – different times-”

“Well,” Deaton says, hesitating, “We’re going to have to talk about that in particular again, but in general I’d say, yes. All of this.”

“And the – things? Creatures?”

“ _Ha!_ ” a voice says from the back of the room. Their heads turn to watch Mrs. Allen slowly round a shelf with exotic looking plants. “I knew it! I knew you can see them. They’re spirits. They belong with nature, and some sparks can see them and hear them, too.”

“I can’t,” Deaton says, “but Mrs. Allen can.”

“So... so – the lacrosse ball,” Stiles slowly starts, “I – made it vanish.”

“Yes, Scott told us about that,” Deaton says, “I’d say you dislocated it most effectively. A very pointed use of your powers and very unusual for a newly awakened spark.”

“Ha, unusual, you can say that again!,” Mrs. Allen says. She barks out a laugh. “With young sparks everything is usually like – _boom, bang!_ ”

She waves her old fingers through the air, mimicking an explosion.

“Scott!” Stiles exclaims, a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach. “Where is he? Is he – oh, God, what have I done...”

“He’s fine. Everyone is. I already told you,” Derek pipes up and he sounds impatient. Like all of this is going way too slowly for his taste.

“But he-”

“All is good, son,” the sheriff says and he puts his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Mrs. Allen was there in time.”

Stiles lifts his gaze up to meet his father’s eye.

“Or-,” he swallows, “or what?”

But his dad doesn’t answer.

“What would have happened if-” But he trails off, doesn’t finish the sentence because he already _knows_.

“In history, no one present to watch a spark awaken has lived to tell the tale,” Deaton explains with his calm voice. “The first show of true spark power usually leaves behind – utter devastation.”

Stiles’ mouth hangs open.

Utter devastation.

The words loom large in his mind.

“Harris that creep must be ecstatic,” Mrs. Allen presently says, “Tss. He’d have cut off his own legs and eaten them if that meant he could watch a spark come into his powers in front of his greedy eyes.”

“Yes. He told me he has been watching Stiles from the start. Adrian has been – _suspecting_ it.”

“What?” Derek says at the same moment that the sheriff goes, “ _Seriously_? Are you fucking kidding me? Harris knew and he – didn’t tell anyone?”

“Well, you knew as well, didn’t you?” Deaton says back. He does not sound accusatory, his tone is as neutral as ever. Stiles’ dad immediately gets a guilty look on his face.

“No – not – really. I – Claudia got this crazy idea that Stiles might be cut out to become a spark. That his very – character would make it possible, you know? It’s why she didn’t want him to grow up in Beacon Hills.”

“What? Mum?”

His dad reluctantly faces Stiles’ open amazement and nods.

“Yes.”

“But it was no use. Was it, John?” Mrs. Allen says and she sounds – almost spiteful. “Ironic right? It took only a couple of days of Beacon Hills’ magic atmosphere to fully awaken your boy.”

She slowly sinks down into one of the plastic chairs by the window and harrumphs.

“Tsss. Took _me_ sixteen years. And I used to hear the Nemeton whisper to me in my sleep when I was a little girl. But it wasn’t enough to make me seek out the powers. Took _your boy_ -”

“Yes, yes, I get it, Prissy,” the sheriff retorts and, for a moment Stiles thinks that his dad insulted Mrs. Allen before he realizes that Prissy must be her first name, “A couple of days – and...,” he turns around slowly, “...an alpha.”

Derek who’s leaning in the door doesn’t react, just stares gloomily ahead.

“Nonsense, John,” Mrs. Allen says, “It’s not Derek’s fault, he didn’t want this. Or does he look happy?”

She flicks her eyes over at the silent young man, then back at Stiles again with a mischievous grin.

“But I forget, the old sourwolf is _never_ happy. You’ll soon learn, Stiles. And the two of you will have plenty of time to learn from each other.”

Stiles just blinks at her while Derek’s expression darkens.

“But – I – I don’t understand... _anything_.”

“You will, son,” his father sighs. “You will soon. For now – we all need some rest. Dr. Deaton will go over safety procedures with you and then I’ll take you home, get some food into you. You’ve been here long enough. And then I guess we’ll just have to – bow down to destiny.”

“Oh, but John...”

Mrs. Allen’s old eyes sparkle as she turns to the sheriff.

“There’s no destiny,” she says.

“There’s only – chance.”

 

 

 

 

Only chance.

It’s certainly a chance gathering in the back room of Dr. Deaton’s small clinic. Stiles is leaning against the examination table, holding on to it for balance. He can still almost feel the warmth of Derek’s hand, the way his fingers closed around his, protectively, but gently after he woke up the second time, and the thought is making him blush.

Derek Hale, however, looks perfectly unhappy to be stuck in a room with Stiles and old Mrs. Allen who is sitting in her plastic chair, swinging her feet and humming a cheerful tune.

The doctor has walked out to put together a few books for Stiles’ information – and a couple of herbs for his convenience and everyone’s safety – and his dad had been forced to return to work.

Apparently, Stiles’ – his powers – caused some kind of – _havoc_ in front of the school and everything supernatural within a fifty mile radius felt the outburst that almost killed Scott and his dad, Allison, Derek, Jackson, Lydia – two cleaning ladies, the janitor and Harris who had started running from his office when he’d felt it _happening_.

He can’t really believe what he has been told.

That he, Stiles should have done – all of this.

He feels sick to the stomach with guilt and fear, but it’s no use now.

Lingering on self-pity will not help anyone.

This is Beacon Hills and Stiles better believe what people tell him.

But, if it’s true – if he really is a spark –

“What – what am I?”

Mrs. Allen turns her head, but she finishes humming her tune before she answers.

“A spark – is a spark. Ha!” and she pats the trolley with the hideous flower pattern next to her chair, “A spark is a spark is a spark. Get it?”

Stiles blinks at her.

“Okay then, a different approach,” the old woman says, “a spark – is _you_. That’s what it is.”

“Mmmh...”

Stiles is staring down at her old hand that’s resting on the handle of the trolley. He has a vague memory of the same hand lifting something like a huge piece of marble and bring it down hard on his head.

“You – you knocked me out,” he slowly says, eyes widening with surprise.

“You cracked my skull.”

“Sure did, boy,” Mrs. Allen says proudly, “with my good old nase. Only way to make you stop.” And she gives her trolley another pat. “All safely stored away with other useful stuff. And I knew you’d heal of course. You’re a spark.”

“Nase?”

“Looks like a vase, but isn’t.”

Stiles nods.

It’s weird, there’s a thousand questions raging around in his head, but he feels oddly numbed. He’s still terrified and not really understanding anything that’s going on here, but – he feels like it’s okay for now. The trees in front of the window are calling out to him and their voices are soothing.

“What did my dad mean when he said – when he said it was – Derek’s fault?”

Stiles reluctantly looks at Derek whose whole posture expresses that he’d rather be somewhere else, doing something – doing whatever – rather than loitering in a back room of the animal clinic.

The muscles on his lower arms flex beneath his skin like he can only barely keep himself from moving.

“Oh, that has to do with how sparks awaken – what _causes_ a spark.”

Stiles nods, urging her to go on.

“I just said that there’s no fate, only chance. Did you catch that?”

A nod from Stiles. His head is swooning, but he’s trying to stay focused, rooted. He doesn’t know why, but Derek’s presence helps.

“And when a spark awakens, it’s just – chance. You know? A chance happening of different people meeting in a specific place at a specific time and – _BAM!_ ,” she claps her hands together and Stiles almost jumps, his hands losing grip on the smooth table top, “One of them might tap into the very stuff that the universe is made of. _You_ , in this case.”

And she nods.

“But it’s not _just_ you. It’s the combination of everyone here – the pure supernatural power that is Beacon Hills. And the most essential part of this power is, of course,” and she turns her head and makes a wide gesture with her hands, “the alpha.”

Derek does not look up at this, but Stiles can feel his emotions become, somehow, more dense. _Heavier_.

“And from what I gather you had more than one interaction with Derek.”

Stiles frowns.

“But – we only – I mean, those were just short talks-”

“Chance encounters,” Mrs. Allen says smiling. “And it just so happens that you were standing right next to Derek long enough today for your powers to fully awaken and make their way to the surface. Or,” and she actually winks at Stiles, “the other way round.”

Stiles thinks about that for a few seconds.

“Is that why my dad yelled, like – _get away from him_? I mean – he told Derek to-”

“He was right,” Derek interrupts him. He doesn’t look him in the eyes when he says with bitterness, “Had I known what my presence could trigger, I – but I will deal with this.”

Raising his eyes.

“I will deal with this, Mrs. Allen.”

Stiles frowns.

_This?_

“Do you mean – me? Deal with me?”

“I am the alpha,” Derek simply says, but he’s still not looking at Stiles. “I triggered your spark powers. It’s because of me that you awoke. And I’m also the one – the only one – who can function as your anchor.”

With a look over at the old lady.

“Isn’t that right Mrs. Allen?”

“Indeed, it is. Channeling power, preserving structures – that’s what alphas are _for_ , if you will. What they have done since the neck of time.”

She raises a shriveled finger and points it at Stiles.

“Whereas sparks cause chaos. They dissolve structures. They override boundaries. They are simultaneously here and there and will not be locked into fixed categories. They are tricksters of time and space. They can hear the humming of the universe in its creation – and they _respond_ to it.”

She slips out of her chair and squats next to her trolley, opening the zipper a couple of inches so she can stick her old hand inside.

“Rules and order, categories and boundaries – these are all man-made,” she continues while rummaging around in her trolley, “to counteract nature’s chance happenings that are so unbearable to man, all the – dissemination. Disorder. _Entropy_. Ah, there.”

Her hand reappears, clutching a small ceramic figurine. When she turns and holds it up for Stiles to see, it turns out to be the statue of a little cat with its right paw raised.

“Alpha and spark are two opposites, two sides of a coin” Derek is saying now as if to convince himself of his own role, “They need each other. They balance each other out.”

“Tsss. Your binary categories will stifle the boy,” Mrs. Allen says, shaking her head. She straightens her back and screws her finger in Derek’s direction. “And don’t flatter yourself, alpha. There’s no such thing as _opposites_ – and sparks are infinitely more powerful than alphas. Alphas tap into the combined powers of their pack. Sparks tap into the raw energies the universe runs on. I daresay, there’s a _difference_ there, if I ever saw one.”

She smirks at Derek who glowers at her, but doesn’t respond. Stiles can tell that someone saying to his face that he’s wrong is something that doesn’t happen too often and he definitely does _not_ appreciate it.

“Here, boy.”

Mrs. Allen extends her hand and holds out the figurine for Stiles to take.

“Er... thank you. Mh – what is it?”

“It’s a cat,” Mrs. Allen says, surprised. “By the Gods, boy, don’t you know a cat when you see one? Maybe Alan needs to give you another dose of baobab, just to be sure...”

“No, I – I mean – what is it _for_?”

“Put it down. You’ll see.”

Stiles turns and carefully places the cat onto the examination table. He feels dizzy and all his senses are numbed by the poppy seed Dr. Deaton gave him – it’s not a bad feeling, but he has difficulty computing what happens around him.

As soon as Stiles loosens his fingers around the statue, the little paw starts waving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“The paw is connected with the body by a hinge joint,” Mrs. Allen explains, “and it will wave until you manage to contain your powers. It reacts to uncontrolled magic, you see?”

Stiles furrows his brow watching the cat’s mesmerizing movement.

“Magic? But I thought you said-”

“If you have a better word for the stuff reality is made of – let me know. For now though, I’ll stick to the word. _Magic_. I like the sound of it. Rolls off my tongue quite nicely.”

“Thank you,” Stiles says again because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Oh, you’re welcome, boy. I’ll go see if Alan has the papers ready. Then you’re good to go.”

She wobbles out of the room.

Once more Stiles is alone with Derek.

The alpha has slowly moved across the room, over to the window and is staring out into the darkness and whatever he sees there. He’s dressed entirely in black today, black tight pants, black longsleeve that stretches around his muscular upper and lower arms. No trademark leather jacket which makes him look – softer, somehow.

More approachable.

Stiles clears his throat.

“Er... Derek, er... I’m – sorry I caused all of this – trouble. Mh... you – don’t have to stay here, if you don’t want to, I mean.”

They’ve all been here for hours and Derek in particular has been looking exceedingly displeased with being involved.

Or – dragged into this, more like it.

He turns to Stiles now and looks him in the eyes for the first time in a long while.

“I don’t have to be here?” he repeats, baffled, “You’re _sorry_?”

“Mh,” Stiles says, shrinking under Derek’s gaze, “Y-yeah.”

“Have you even listened to _anything_ that has been said in this room?”

“I have,” Stiles says dumbfounded. He can tell that Derek is really angry – majorly so – but the reason for it escapes him completely.

“Then you should have understood that _I’m_ the one most involved in this. I’m the alpha of Beacon Hills. It is my task to protect everyone from you until you have learned to deal with it on your own,” and he turns away again, bitterness in his voice, “and who knows how long that will take.”

Stiles blinks a few times, trying to process Derek’s words.

His heart aches painfully and he swallows.

“Why are you – what have I ever done to you?,” he says, meaning _what have I ever done to deserve your hatred?_ , but not quite able to get himself to say it out loud.

“You almost killed me. And not just me.”

That shuts Stiles up.

“Give the young man a break, Derek Hale, old sourwolf,” Mrs. Allen says. She’s walking back into the room, Dr. Deaton behind her. “You almost killed my bay laurel bush when you burst through that garden wall of mine last Sunday – and you don’t hear _me_ complaining.”

Derek turns to her and grits out, “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but that’s _not_ the same thing.”

“...or... is it?,” Mrs. Allen says back enigmatically.

“Stiles,” Dr. Deaton addresses him. “I compiled a few books for you. And here’s someone to take you home.”

He smiles kindly at Stiles who tries to smile back, but he feels too much like crying, so he gives up again after a moment. He looks over to the door and sees Jordan Parrish walk into the room. He’s in uniform, wearing his service weapons on a belt around his waist and an open smile on his lips.

“Stiles – how are you?”

Stiles just nods.

“So – you are a spark?”

Another nod.

“Wow – just – wow. That’s – I can’t believe it!”

“Neither can we,” Dr. Deaton says. He hands Parrish the stack of books, then gives Stiles a couple of loose papers.

“That’s absolutely incredible,” Parrish lets out what sounds like an amazed laugh, “And I’m actually here to witness it all – just – _wow_.”

When he sees the sad look on Stiles’ face, he says, “Don’t worry, Stiles. You’re probably the first spark in the history of mankind who did _not_ kill anyone upon awakening.”

“Because Mrs. Allen was there,” Stiles says and sighs. “Yeah, got that...”

“Chance encounters,” Mrs. Allen says cheerfully, “But I daresay, I wasn’t the only reason. But enough of that for today. We will talk about this soon enough. You need to get some sleep, boy – some _real_ sleep, in your own bed, not the poppy seed-induced phases of unconsciousness on an aluminum examination table in the backroom of an animal clinic. You’ve had a busy day. Or, well, night.”

Stiles looks up at the clock above the door that says 4:15.

So – that means 4:15 _a.m_.

He has lost any sense of time in this room. He can’t even tell how many hours he’d been out anymore, and how often he awoke.

In his mind, he’d been wandering the stars.

“Your dad sent me over so Derek can get some sleep,” Parrish says now. He’s clutching the books to his chest and nods over to where Derek is looming in a corner of the room, tall and dark and silent.

“Alpha,” he greets him respectfully, and Derek nods back, then pushes himself off the wall and says, “Do you think that’s a good idea? I should stay close in case Stiles becomes unstable.”

Unstable.

Stiles drops his gaze to the floor again, mortified.

He’s a big fucking problem.

That’s all he is.

“He should be fine for today,” Deaton says. “I’ll send over a couple of – herbs and concoctions with instructions on how to take them, I just need some peace and quiet to assemble them. And Stiles doesn’t strike me as very unstable, not presently. Prissy?”

Mrs. Allen nods.

“Agreed. He should be fine for now.”

“Perfect,” Parrish says, beaming at Stiles. “Okay, come on, Stiles, let’s go. My cruiser is parked in the back. Oh, careful, there’s the door sill, don’t trip.”

Stiles nods and, a little unsteady, follows Parrish out the door, only stopping to thank Mrs. Allen and Dr. Deaton. He also addresses a thank you in Derek’s general direction, but is met with gloomy silence.

The alpha’s gaze is lingering on Parrish’s hand that’s resting on Stiles’ shoulder.

 

 

 

The streets were dark and empty.

Stiles had wanted to know why his dad had to do an extra shift and what kind of chaos he had caused, but Parrish had answered all of his questions with a smile and the words, “Don’t worry, everything is fine.”

He’d taken Stiles directly home without any detours and offered to make him a sandwich, but Stiles had kindly refused.

Then he’d gone straight to bed.

On waking up again, Stiles took a shower, poured himself a bowl of cereal and tried to push them away from him.

The voices.

He’s still holding on to the lacrosse ball and carries it with him at all times. He cleaned it – because Jackson’s spit? _ugh, gross!_ – and carries it around in the pocket of his hoodie, and whenever he’s starting to feel unstable and he gets that fear that _something_ might happen, that he might _do something_ , he touches it with his fingertips and immediately feels calmed.

Soothed.

The ball gives him images, smells and sounds of wild games, ecstatic victories, dewy grass, of feeling alive, and a young beta’s sinewy strength and it all helps him push the unsettling thoughts far away for the moment.

It helps Stiles feel ready, finally, to face this – all of this.

To start on his training.

Now he’s sitting at his desk, lacrosse ball in his pocket, watching the maneki-neko that he propped up next to his desk lamp waving its paw at him and trying to concentrate on his powers the way Deaton told him to do.

And – it’s _maddening_ because focusing is one of Stiles’ least favorite things. Since he was very little he has been all over the place, driving people crazy with his constant rambling.

 _Sit still, Stiles, for God’s sake, and focus!_ , is a sentence Stiles grew up with, so how on earth is he supposed to do this?

To – keep calm and focus?

Nothing is stranger, nothing more foreign to his character.

It’s late afternoon, the sky is already growing dark again.

 _Listen to m_ e, Stiles keeps telling them – and there’s so many of them, multitudes, he’s feeling so full.

So exhausted.

_Listen to me._

_Do as I say._

_Stay down._

_Don’t act up._

It seems to be of no use at all. He feels completely at their mercy.

Is that what his life is going to be from now on?

A vessel of untamable forces that he will have to struggle to contain – until the day he dies?

It’s agony because they _want out_ and float freely.

Then again, neither Dr. Deaton nor Mrs. Allen seem very tormented.

So it must be possible.

To learn and live with it.

Somehow.

Or maybe, it’s just him, Stiles.

Maybe he’s the one spark in the history of sparks who will be unable to learn.

Stiles shakes his head violently, then moves his jaw to the left and right as if to stretch it.

Okay, no.

No, he _can_ do this, he _must_.

He just has to – focus on –

_Knock, knock._

Stiles jumps up from his computer chair, almost falls over backwards.

When he turns, he sees a face looming in front of his window, pale against the dark night sky.

It’s Derek Hale.

Stiles walks across the room, by his bed, heart almost beating out of his chest. Unlatches the window and pushes it open.

“What the hell, man?! You just scared the crap out of me!”

Derek is still in his black shirt and pants. There are dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept since Stiles last saw him.

When he steps back, Derek climbs into the room without even so much as a _hello_.

“We do have a front door – you know that, right?”

Derek turns and throws a long look out into the darkness.

Unmoving, he inhales deeply, scenting the air.

Then he quickly shuts the window and turns to stare at Stiles looking him up and down.

“Any progress?” is the first thing he says.

“Progress?”

“Your powers,” Derek says impatiently. “Did you train the way Deaton told you to?”

Stiles nods.

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“Mh... I don’t feel any – different so far.”

“So, no progress,” Derek says curtly. His eyes wander through the room.

His anger makes Stiles sad – but also irritated.

It’s not like he _chose_ this.

It’s not like he’s such a lazy piece of shit – or so arrogant to think that practice of any sort is beneath him.

“I barely had time,” he says defensively, and pushes down thoughts of how ridiculous the concept is to him.

 _Not now_ , he says to the voices whispering in his head and singing outside in the trees, pulling at him, drawing his gaze backwards through time and forwards into the future until all sense of linearity falls apart.

_Not now, for God’s sake._

“You’re not well,” Derek remarks. He’s watching Stiles.

“I can tell that it’s starting again. Your _eyes_ -”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Stiles averts his gaze to the ground.

“Yeah – but I’m – _trying_ , okay? I’m really trying. Besides.” And he nods over to his desk where small bottles are lined up in front of the big stack of Deaton’s books.

“I’m to take another dose of this stuff in about ten minutes. Then I should be good again, Dr. Deaton says.”

_Please, please make me feel stable, please._

_It has to help, it absolutely has to._

Derek nods.

“Okay. Can you do without me for another few hours?”

The words could have been spoken gently.

Derek, however, barked them at Stiles managing to sound accusatory and extremely pissed at the same time.

Stiles narrows his eyes.

“I can do without you for longer than that, thank you very much.”

He walks over to his desk and picks up two of his textbooks, waving them at Derek.

“And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve still got a ton of homework to do, so-”

Oh, Stiles.

Big mistake.

Because what was stuck between the pages of his calculus textbook – what is flurrying to the ground now – is the photo of Derek Danny Mahealani gave Stiles on his first day at school and that Stiles absent-mindedly slipped between the pages of one of his textbooks.

So, that textbook apparently was his calculus textbook.

And Stiles – he completely forgot about it all.

The photo lands on the carpet between Derek and Stiles, picture side up.

Of course.

“What is that?” Derek says, eyeballing the shape of – well, himself, in a black t-shirt.

“Nothing!” Stiles immediately says and leaps at the photo, blushing wildly, but he’s not fast enough.

Derek has already picked it up.

He’s holding it between his thumb and index finger, a look of disbelief on his face.

Then lifts his eyes up to look at Stiles who calls out for his powers to open the ground beneath his feet and just let him vanish.

Of course, defiant as always, his spark doesn’t obey.

“Why do you have a photo of me?”

“It’s not – it’s _not_ what it looks like,” Stiles hurries to say, aware that his ears are bright red, “A guy in my class gave it to me, er, Danny – Danny Mahealani – he sells them.”

“He sells photos of me?”

“Yeah, I think so...,” Stiles says, averting his eyes to the ground, feeling guilty because, man, he probably got Danny into a lot of trouble just now.

“And you bought this,” Derek says and holds the photo up for Stiles to see.

“No, I didn’t, Danny gave it to me, I told you, I – I didn’t even _want_ it, but he _shoved_ it in my face and-,”

Oh, Stiles.

Just shut the fuck up.

“-and I completely forgot that I had it. I swear.”

Derek turns the photo in his hand, scrutinizing it with his brows deeply furrowed.

Stiles’ heart is beating loudly.

God, could this get any more awkward.

“Just so you know,” Derek slowly says and he lifts his gaze to meet Stiles’ again, “I’m _not_ going to mate you.”

Stiles looks up from the ground, eyes wide open, confused.

“Huh? Why would you – mate me?”

“ _I won’t_ ,” Derek says sharply. “And that’s my last word.”

Stiles can feel his mortification mix with a hint of anger at being treated like this.

“And who ever said you had to?,” he says defiantly, “Why do you talk like I’m forcing you into stuff you don’t want? _Mate_ you? What does that even mean?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“God, you don’t even know the absolute basics of the supernatural world.”

“And how could I?” Stiles says and he feels it now, very clearly.

He has run out of patience.

It’s as simple as that.

The whole day, the shocking recognition, the feeling of imbalance that’s still low key there, the sheer fucking fear that he’s simply, accidentally, going to kill everyone around him and now Derek fucking Hale implying that he, Stiles, is the one to blame – somehow – it’s just too much.

“A week ago I didn’t even have a fucking clue that any of you exist! And now I’m – a _spark_? And everyone’s going crazy and – _it’s not like I chose this_!”

Derek has dropped the hand with the photo. Stiles can tell that he’s angry.

The alpha will _not_ be yelled at.

“Do you even get what’s going on here?” he snarls, “Do you even – with that teenage brain of yours – comprehend what’s going to happen? What you are? What this means – for all of us, for me in particular?”

Stiles gasps in outrage.

“For you? _I’m_ the one who’s constantly threatening to slip out of this reality. _I’m_ the one who’s a fucking time bomb,” he grits out and he’s shaking because he’s so fucking angry and desperate, and because his eyes are filling up with tears and he can’t even hide it, “So don’t tell me I don’t understand. I understand perfectly.”

“You’re a force that needs to be contained, Stiles, and I-,” Derek starts and Stiles knows _exactly_ what he’s going to say. And he’s had enough.

“I don’t fucking care,” he exclaims, “about your responsibility! None of this has anything to do with you!”

They look at each other, Derek in gloomy silence, edges of his lips pulled downward in displeasure, Stiles panting.

“It has _everything_ to do with me,” Derek finally says darkly and enigmatically.

“You’ll learn.”

He turns to face the window, bends down to push it open, photo still in his hands. Then, with one foot already on the window sill, his muscular back toward Stiles, “And I _won’t_ run away from my responsibilities. I never have. But even I have my limits. I will _not_ take you as my mate.”

“I don’t even want to be your fucking buddy, you moron,” Stiles yells, but Derek is already gone. He’s taken a leap out of the window without even waiting for Stiles’ response.

So – that’s it.

A round of applause.

Derek Hale, everyone.

He just barged in to make a couple of official declarations to another one of his burdens.

Stiles stares at the point where Derek’s head has been two seconds ago.

_This guy._

He stomps over to the window, slams it shut, fuming with anger.

 _Unbelievable_.


	4. Wood Duck Blues, or: Time is Only Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Stiles' awakening, part one.

 

“In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”

( _The Road_ )

 

“It’s a revolution, I suppose.”

(“Radioactive”)

 

He’s a spark.

He, Stiles, is a spark.

It’s just – he cannot fucking believe it.

He’s not only one of the rarest supernatural creatures, but also by far the most powerful one.

Stiles has only been living in the supernatural world for a week, but whenever he heard sparks talked of it was with respect – with infinite awe.

“ _Son_ ,” his dad had started and he’d sat down on Stiles’ bed, “ _you will go down in history_.”

But he hadn’t sounded very happy about it, and when Stiles had asked him why that was, his dad had given him a long, good look.

“You will soon learn that – sparks are – _desired_. Everybody in the supernatural world will know your name. Everybody will want to be near you. And some – will want to harm you.”

“But Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Allen seem to be fine – and they have been known as sparks for decades,” Stiles had said back, but his father had only shaken his head.

“You will soon comprehend how incredibly powerful these two are – many have tried to harm them and never returned. But you, Stiles – you are newly awakened. Not in control, you are-”

“An easy target?”

“A miracle.”

Stiles is sitting at his desk, turning the lacrosse ball in his hand.

He’d wanted to go out to clear his head, but his dad had deemed it better to stay inside for now.

Scott has been trying to reach him since Friday evening, but his dad took his phone away which –

that’s completely unnecessary and, quite frankly, pisses Stiles off.

His dad had no right to do that, none whatsoever.

Yeah, okay, Stiles gets it – it’s for everyone’s safety, alright.

But how could his talking to his new best friend over the phone harm anyone.

Mh?

Yeah, exactly.

That’s what Stiles would like to know as well.

And this?

Stiles tosses one of the books Deaton gave him back onto his desk that is strewn with loose papers and parchments and sighs in frustration.

Screw all of this.

How is this supposed to be of any help to him?

Stiles had expected some Spark 101 stuff, like how to find your anchor, how to use your powers as a weapon – how to fucking sleep when your head is full of sound. He’d sat down and opened the first book eagerly, but his enthusiasm had soon ebbed away, his headache returned.

About 90% of it is extremely detailed information on plants, from dandelions and primroses to elder trees and baobabs, only the books aren’t really informational in the textbook sense. They have no recognizable structuring pattern, nor do they contain any form of classification or categorization. The entries aren’t even arranged alphabetically.

The doctor’s research material is more like a stack of ancient scrap books a six-year-old would assemble, with tons of hand-drawn pictures – from the looks of it, done by about a thousand different people – and random notes jotted down around them, not all of them legible, most of them in languages other than English, and with a shockingly high density of typos.

Stiles put these books on a stack to the left.

To the right sits a considerably smaller pile, about 10% of the total number.

Those are books of stories, some longer, some shorter, some sad, a considerable portion of them vulgar, a few pornographic and all of them with comic or ironic undercurrents – entertaining, yes, but none of them what Stiles had been looking for.

Then there is one tiny booklet entitled _The High and Honorable Art of Anything Goes_ told by the Great Makwa Argent, listened to and transcribed by her daughter Rosaria Argent.

Okay, so he’d die to know how he’s gonna make it through the next couple of days without _killing_ anyone. All he gets from Deaton’s books, however, is nonsense bullshit like _I luv me some dandelions_ and _pompoms of the sun_ , or _thou shalt never sleep underneath the ash tree for the pigeon doth prefer the lower branches_.

Like, seriously – what the hell?

Now, analytical thinking – pattern recognition – is Stiles’ strong suit, always has been. After a first hour of frustration he accordingly sat down to uncover the code that, undoubtedly, must be hidden underneath seemingly idiotic phrases.

There has to be some kind of pattern, some internal logic according to which the sentences are arranged. Maybe the fact that most of them are in different languages is a clue – Stiles is not supposed to pay attention to the meaning of the words, but, maybe, the arrangement of letters on the page reveals a certain geometrical pattern or something.

Maybe the knowledge was encoded this way so it wouldn’t be stolen.

It’s late Sunday evening, however, and Stiles has given up.

He’s so frustrated, he feels like crying – and maybe he does, you know, cry, a little bit.

Deep inside of him, he can feel it moving around, lurking, bubbling higher and higher – his _spark_. It’s the same kind of sensation he’s had on Friday before his awakening, the distinct feeling of being on the edge of peeling out of his skin and expand beyond his bodily limits, and it makes him panic.

He reaches over to the assortment of tiny glass bottles, picks one and opens it. It holds, according to Deaton (and the label on the side), bits of the bark of a baobab tree laced with poppy seed milk and other stuff. Stiles fishes a piece out and considers it, then pops it into his mouth and starts chewing.

The stuff is absolutely disgusting.

Not like rotten-meat-disgusting, okay, yes, but, still.

It’s just part of a tree with a toxic taste to it and Stiles flexes his jaw muscles, opens his mouth wide while chewing, grimaces – does anything necessary to get the stuff down.

It helps.

For now.

See?

That’s the stuff he wants to learn – the stuff he needs to know.

How do I grow magic plants and then turn them into badass potions.

How do I control my – inner chi or whatever.

How do I let sparks dance around my hands and scare the crap out of Jackson.

When he first learned of sparks Stiles imagined them to be shady warlocks or witches in ginger bread houses. Scott’s description made them sound less folkstale-y and more real, regular people of any profession, complexion or culture whose powers happen to be greater and more versatile than those of an alpha. While he can hardly describe what being a spark feels like, he knows this: no one has a fucking clue what it’s really like – except for the sparks themselves.

Plus, according to Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Allen, every spark is different, so –

No one has a fucking clue what Stiles feels like.

He’s alone.

Stiles forces down the piece of bark that has become tender and slimy in his mouth, gags twice, then sighs and grabs the top book from the right stack.

For some reason a disproportionally large number of the stories is about wooden ducks.

Stiles doesn’t even have anything to say about this anymore.

In general, the stories deal with animals, most of them are funny and if Stiles weren’t so incredibly frustrated and on the verge of actual panic, he’d probably really enjoy them.

 

 

 

That night, Stiles dreams of bears and a beautiful black panther, never to be tamed, strength behind his sinewy limbs, the setting sun warming his black fur on a late September afternoon.

 

 

 

 

 

On Monday morning, Stiles slams the door of his Jeep shut and yawns.

What a night.

But hey.

At least he’s still here and – himself.

Ha.

Stiles one, spark _zero_.

He turns in the school parking lot, about to set off in the direction of the building, when –

“You do know that-”

“Oh – _MY GOD_!”

“-practice doesn’t just stop after the weekend.”

Stiles turns his head left and right, hand clutched over his heart that is almost beating out of his chest.

“You have _got_ to stop doing that!”

He spots Derek Hale directly in front of him, squatting high up on the wall that surrounds the parking lot, half-hidden in the shrubs and branches of trees seaming the public place.

“Jesus... you just scared the crap out of me.”

Derek smirks down on him.

He’s once again dressed all in black, dark pants and a black shirt with dark sneakers.

“Had you been more attentive, I wouldn’t have been able to startle you.”

“Startle...,” Stiles mutters. “More like attack me. _J_ _eez_. I’m not even completely awake, for God’s sake.”

“Why not?” Derek says and manages to make it sound reprimanding.

“ _Because_!” Stiles says back angrily. He is very short-tempered when tired.

“Because I’m nauseous from that goddamn bark I’ve been chewing all weekend, and it’s not exactly _heaven_ for my gums either, like, my mouth okay? It’s basically _bleeding_ , and because today might be the day I just accidentally kill fifty people. Because I fell asleep on a book about fucking _wood ducks_.”

He looks up at Derek, panting, and bracing himself for the alpha’s anger, but, to his utter amazement, a grin appears on Derek’s handsome face.

“Is that why you have letters on your cheek?”

“What?” Stiles says, then starts rubbing at his cheeks furiously. “Oh, no.... Deaton’s going to kill me, I bet these books are ancient and expensive and – _completely fucking useless_.”

A pause ensues during which Stiles is clutching his cheeks and staring down at his sneakers, once again mortified in the presence of the alpha, while Derek watches him, an amused smile on his lips.

“You know, stressing out like that will only-”

“I can’t believe it. Would you _please_ get off my back!”

 _God_.

This dude had been all charming and gorgeous as long as Stiles could admire him from a distance, as the alpha of Beacon Hills, everyone’s secret crush, and Stiles an innocent bystander.

Now though.

“Sorry,” Stiles quickly adds, “just – none of this is helping, okay? Like, at all. And if you don’t have anything useful to teach me, like for instance, how I can keep my spark from-”

But Derek goes, “SSHHH!” and raises his hands in a _stop_ gesture.

Stiles immediately shuts his mouth while Derek is scenting the air and listening, immobile.

His whole graceful form tense, alert.

Then he says, “Do _not_ use that word here. No one knows about your – _powers_ yet, but news travel fast and we need to keep this a secret for as long as possible. Do you understand?”

A curt nod from Stiles.

“Stiles,” Derek barks, “Do you really understand how crucial-”

“Yes, yes, I understand, _God_ , I’m not three.”

Derek lifts his eyebrows at that, almost like _You aren’t?_ and Stiles glares back at him angrily.

“Why are you even here,” he says after a moment of silence, “shouldn’t you be like,” gesturing vaguely in the direction of the school, “beating a hundred students’ teeth out or something?”

“They’ll wait,” Derek simply says and Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or frown at that.

“And it would be absolute madness to leave a newly awakened – to leave _you_ unattended.”

A grim look appears on his face.

“If it was up to me you wouldn’t even be here right now. Putting everyone in danger.”

Stiles’ face falls, his heart sinks.

“I get it. I’m a lethal hazard.”

“That’s not,” Derek starts, then stops himself and goes, “Yeah, well. Kinda.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He’s not feeling good, but at least the source isn’t his growing imbalance this time. Just plain sadness.

Fucking great.

“So, I’ll just,” and he motions with his head in the direction of the school, “be over there....”

“I’ll stay nearby.”

“Wouldn’t it be, I don’t know – _suspicious_ if Derek Hale walked into the high school with new kid Stiles Stilinski? I thought we’re sworn to secrecy and all that.”

Derek smirks.

He jumps from the wall and lands next to Stiles’ Jeep with the smoothness and elegance of a cat.

Or a panther.

“Who said anything about walking with you.”

He lets his eyes glow blood red – Stiles assumes it’s just for the sake of freaking him out – and with another smooth leap disappears behind the row of parked cars to the right of the Jeep.

“O-okay. Well, then just... I’ll just be – er, yeah, okay.”

Stiles turns and makes his way across the parking lot, dragging his feet because he’s so damn tired, sneakers shuffling through the sandy gravel.

There’s a vague anger at Derek in the pit of his stomach which, yes, is probably childish.

But does he have to be so damn hurtful?

Stiles is trying, okay?

 

 

“Holy – shit.”

Stiles has come to a halt in front of the school.

Well.

School is a crude exaggeration for the field of rubble and devastation in front of his eyes.

“Stiles!”

Scott is making his way through the crowd and Stiles hurries to meet him.

“What the – where is – where is – _everything_?!”

The crowd in front of the school?

Same as always.

A bunch of teenage betas with the occasional adult in-between, waiting to fight the alpha of the town in order to defend him and take his place, along with the Derek Hale-fanclubs, chattering boys and girls lined up a little to the side of the trouble-seeking mob and, if Stiles isn’t mistaken, a few of them carry pompoms.

But that’s about it.

That’s the only thing vaguely normal – normal according to Beacon Hills standard that is – about this scene.

“Where’s the – wasn’t there a huge-ass cement piece of wall that said Beacon Hills High? Like – right here? And,” Stiles gaze wanders over to the shell of a school building.

A gigantic hole is gaping in the face of the building. It looks like a massive tornado swept across the premises and then dropped a large dinosaur that simply bit off the big double doors, and half of the chemistry and English classrooms.

“What the...”

Even the street to the left is torn up, like something just took the asphalt right off the ground.

Something – _magic_.

The only thing still standing, albeit a little ruffled, are the trees and shrubs.

Stiles can see people with orange vests working on the street and over by the school building. A big tarp is currently being put up to close off the classrooms and protect them from rain.

Scott hasn’t said anything yet.

He’s just looking at Stiles.

“Was that – was that m-”

But a hand is clapped over his mouth before he can finish the sentence.

“Not here. Let’s go inside,” Allison whispers into his ear and Stiles nods. She lets go of his mouth.

Then he’s being pulled into a tight embrace by Scott.

“I was so _fucking_ worried about you, man, especially after I saw what – what you....”

Stiles can’t speak.

So it had really been him.

All of this.

 _He_ caused this.

He tore a giant hole into the school building, ripped up the street and whatnot.

He almost killed Scott and Allison.

What is he supposed to say?

Sorry?

Won’t happen again?

He can’t even promise that.

And his spark, it’s pulling at him, tearing at him, wanting OUT and Stiles – in all honesty, he has no idea how he’s going to survive this day.

How anyone is.

“ _There he is!! Alpha!!”_

Stiles can hear the crowd roar and he knows what’s happening without even turning around.

“Derek is here,” Allison says. She has taken Stiles by the hand. “Our chance. Let’s go. Quick.”

She starts pulling Stiles in the direction of the building, but then stops.

Turns.

Because, you see, this is a historic moment.

The crowd is _not_ attacking.

All the betas?

They’re just standing there.

Stiles can glimpse Derek’s upright figure, but it’s impossible to tell whether he is confused by this bizarre behavior or not.

A buff dude that Stiles recognizes as either Ethan or Aidan Schmidt takes a step forward, away from the crowd.

“We want to know what happened here,” he demands.

Stiles can hear shouts of “ _Yeah!_ ” and “ _Tell us!_ ”

For a moment everything is completely silent and Stiles is convinced that Derek will just turn and walk away.

Then however, he can hear Derek say, “I already released an official statement to the news.”

“A stray troll,” one of the Schmidt twins snorts and the other one chimes in with, “That’s bullshit!”

“I didn’t say it was a stray troll. That’s pure speculation,” Derek says back and Stiles can hear all the way across the yard that he’s quickly running out of patience. “I said that, presently, we don’t know _how_ this - havoc was caused exactly, but the police are investigating.”

“You’re the alpha!,” a girl can be heard yelling, “If you don’t know, then who will?!”

“Yeah!” a few people shout and then someone else says, “You’re supposed to protect us!”

And then the voices grow louder and louder, about fifty people shouting their questions and demands at Derek.

Stiles can discern words like _lightning_ and _blast wave_ and _power_.

Then, apparently, they seem to have had enough of what must have been the most unsatisfactory Q & A in the history of the town – or maybe it’s because they’re so angry – but suddenly everyone is finally swarming in Derek’s direction.

Stiles can see him duck down, bracing himself.

Then one of the betas peels away from the crowd and leaps at Derek, both claws raised high.

“Come on,” Allison says and the three of them start moving again, Allison in front of Stiles, dragging him along and Scott behind them, almost like they’re shielding him.

Protecting him.

It’s a ridiculous thought of course. _They_ should be the ones being protected.

From Stiles.

While they’re making their way through the crowd they are joined by Lydia. She suddenly appears by Stiles’ side without even acknowledging his presence.

They round the building and enter the school through a side door.

“Isn’t it kind of dangerous,” Stiles suddenly finds himself muttering – out of sheer nervousness – “to be using the building when half of it has been torn away?”

“Well,” Lydia says, “ _you_ tell _us_!”

The door clicks shut behind them. The hallway is completely empty.

Lydia has turned and is poking Stiles’ chest with her index finger, a menacing look on her face that is, somehow, only emphasized by her blood red lipstick and not at all mitigated by the cute yellow dress she’s wearing.

“What the hell was that? Mh?”

“Lydia... easy,” Allison starts, but Lydia immediately shuts her up.

“No, Allison, we have a _right_ to know! We were almost _killed_! You completely _ruined_ my outfit. I had to re-do my nails on a _Friday evening_.”

She stares at Stiles, furiously, who only blinks back at her.

“I _never_ re-do my nails on a Friday evening!”

“Oh – okay,” Stiles mumbles and swallows.

“Hey, man, what Lydia is trying to say is that we’re worried about you – I was worried about you – and-”

“Speak for yourself, Scott,” Lydia hisses. “Now, shoot.”

And she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Are you – or aren’t you – a _spark_?”

Silence.

Stiles looks back at her, swallows.

Derek told him not to say anything.

His dad had done the same thing, and Deaton and Mrs. Allen.

_No one can know, Stiles, do you understand?_

_Not a single person._

Stiles swallows again, flicks his eyes from Lydia over to Allison, then to Scott.

They’re all waiting, conflicting emotions visible on their faces and Stiles decides in an instant.

He inhales deeply and says,

“Yes.”

Silence.

He expected Lydia to go, “I knew it!!” – after all, he remembers her bringing it up randomly before and after a mere week of classes together with her Stiles is pretty sure that she’s the most brilliant person he has ever met.

But Lydia’s mouth just drops open.

“Good God,” Allison whispers, tears in her eyes.

Scott seems simply incapable of reacting with speech – or reacting at all – he just stands there, mouth agape, eyes wide.

“Er,” Stiles says after a while, shifting uncomfortably, “But don’t tell anyone. No one is supposed to know.”

None of them react.

Allison has her hands over her mouth. Tears are dribbling down her cheeks.

“A-Allison?” Stiles starts, unsure what to say or how to understand her reaction. Then, to Scott, “Is she okay?”

Scott puts his arm around Allison’s waist, pulls her close.

“She’s _moved_. That’s a huge thing, man.”

“To – witness a spark come to power,” Allison forces out, voice faltering. She straightens her back and angrily wipes away her tears.

“That – this would happen – in my lifetime and – I’d be here – to witness it, that’s – it’s just – such a blessing.”

She smiles at Stiles through wet eyes.

Stiles is not sure how to feel about this.

He expected screaming or, you know, at least fear.

“I almost killed all of you!”

He gestures in Lydia’s direction who is pale as a sheet, her full lips parted in a silent _Oh_.

“She’s right, I’m a danger to all of you! From all I know you should be running right now. Far away. Derek was right, I shouldn’t-,” shoulders slouching, “I shouldn’t even be here.”

Scott who is still pressing Allison flush to his chest says, “Derek knows?”

Then he raises his hands, runs it through his hair in a _where is my brain_ -gesture.

Stiles can see that his hand – Scott’s hand - is _shaking_ and he cannot fucking believe it.

It just – it doesn’t compute.

“Of course he knows, he was there and he’s the alpha,” Scott is muttering now, more to himself than to anyone else.

His eyes dart over to Stiles, then down to the floor.

“And you – are mated to him?”

“What?”

Stiles blinks.

There is that word again – mated – and it’s only now that understanding is slowly dawning on Stiles and he exclaims, “That’s what he was talking about!”

“Who?” Scott says gently. “Derek?”

“Yeah, now I get it – oh – oh, my God, _that’s_ what he meant – and – and I thought he was talking about – oh, _God_!”

He covers his face with his hands, a wave of mortification rolling over him and, speaking through his fingers, “I thought he was talking about like – being buddies. Being friends, you know? When he meant – _being married_.”

That’s the moment Lydia’s brain seems to be ready to re-enter the conversation.

“Being _mated_ doesn’t mean being _married_.”

At the same time Scott goes, “So – he asked you? What – did you say?”

His eyes are big and brown and Stiles can sense a distinct feeling of worry about Scott. Mixed with – something akin to – _awe_.

Because of him, Stiles.

All Stiles can do is keep shaking his head.

“No... no no no no...”

“No? Like – not yet?” Scott asks carefully.

“I think Stiles is expressing a feeling of mortification,” Lydia says, her voice sounding firmer with every word, “You as a wolf should be able to sense that, Scott.”

“Mortification, yeah, you can say that again. Holy.... God…,” Stiles mutters.

“So – are you the alpha’s mate?” Lydia inquires, her tone not as commanding as before.

Stiles shakes his head.

“You guys don’t understand. He said – he just said,” nothing in the world will get Stiles to speak of the photo-incident, so he just paraphrases with, “He just made clear that he wouldn’t mate me. Like – never. Ever.”

“What?” Allison and Lydia say at the same time. They look at each other.

“Seriously?” Scott adds with utter amazement.

“That – you sure you didn’t misunderstand?”

“Why would that be so incredible?” Stiles gives back, feeling sick to the stomach. “What’s up with that whole mating thing anyway? Why would Derek even say... I don’t get it.”

“Didn’t you ask him?” Lydia says sharply.

“I had a lot to compute that day,” Stiles gives back defensively. “Besides – I seem to recall – didn’t we talk about this, Scott? And didn’t you say neither Dr. Deaton nor Mrs. Allen are mated?”

And, in a lower voice, “I don’t get what’s the big deal anyway. Except that I might just accidentally kill _everyone_. What’s so special about being a spark?”

Another round of silence and staring ensues.

Allison, her face full of emotion and still teary-eyed, is shaking her head slowly, whispering, “Oh, Stiles....”

“A mating bond-,” Lydia starts, “God, how to put this in quick and easy terms....”

She puts her fingertips to her brows and closes her eyes. Stiles can feel that she’s concentrating.

“Neither of them is mated – _right now_ ,” she starts, slowly, “That is – I wouldn’t know about Deaton. But Mrs. Allen isn’t and she’s very proud of it.”

“Right... now?” Stiles repeats, not comprehending.

“Mating isn’t as final as it sounds,” Scott offers. “I mean, it kind of is, then again-”

Lydia interrupts him by lifting her hand.

“Just shut up, Scott,” she snaps testily, “You’re completely confusing him. Listen, Stiles. You get mated – that is, deeply connected – with a wolf through the claiming bite. But of course the bite would heal eventually and has to be renewed. And at the time of their awakening – and in the years after – both Deaton and Mrs. Allen were – _of course_ – mated.”

“Of... course?” Stiles says hoarsely. “Why of course?”

“Because,” Lydia retorts sharply, “it’s the only way for a spark to even remotely gain control over their immense power.”

That makes Stiles heart beat loudly.

“I never thought Derek could be so irresponsible.”

She crosses her arms in front of her heart.

“He just doesn’t want to force Stiles into things,” Scott starts, but Lydia interrupts him with a renewed hiss of, “ _Irresponsible!_ ”

And Stiles?

He’s just standing there, blood rushing in his ears, his spark swelling in him, calling out to the two little creatures that are watching them through the glass door, pressing their furry noses flat against it.

It’s all making sense now.

“He said,” Stiles whispers, clears his throat, “he said he – has his limits. No – _even he_ has his limits. That’s what he said.”

Lydia snorts out a derisive laugh. Stiles can’t shake the feeling that outrage is her outlet for agitation and stress.

“Un- _believable_.”

“He has to mate you, Stiles,” Allison says gently, worry in her dark brown eyes. “It’s the only way.”

“I don’t think he has to,” Scott starts tentatively. “We don’t know much about s— I mean, about these kind of powers. It wouldn’t be right to force Stiles into a sexual relationship he’s not comfortable with. Derek is so much older than he is. Just think of that.”

“S-sexual?” Stiles repeats, his mouth really dry all of a sudden, but Lydia simply waltzes over his response with, “That’s _insane_ , Scott,” and waves her right hand into his face in a _talk to my hand_ -gesture.

“ _Clearly_. Insane.”

“Sexual? Like s-sex – actual sex? People-sex?”

“Yeah, well – you better ask an actual sp- I mean, Deaton or Mrs. Allen for the particulars,” Allison says sympathetically. “But I’m sure Derek didn’t mean to hurt you with his rejection.”

Oh, Allison.

You’re so smart.

She immediately understood why Stiles can presently not seem to find the right words.

Maybe she can also see the confusion in his eyes.

But she couldn’t possibly know of the soul-crashing ache that shoots through Stiles’ heart which, of course, is absolutely and a hundred percent ridiculous.

Okay, Stiles has quickly developed a legitimate crush on the guy, but so has almost every girl in this town and a not insignificant number of guys, and third- and fourthgender people as well.

So basically every creature with eyes and a big enough brain.

Derek’s looks and immense power just – they just _attract_.

“Er, I think they’re coming back in,” Stiles says with an oppressed heart and indeed.

There’s an echo of footfalls in the hallway, and of people chatting and laughing.

“It’s ten past,” Allison says with a look at her watch – then she flicks her eyes up and they land on Stiles’ face. “Stiles... will you be okay?”

Stiles just shrugs.

 

 

 

They enter the classroom with everyone else.

Stiles is confused and so, so tired.

He’s still numbed from the poppy seed – thank God – and a million things are floating around in his head, Derek Hale, mates, mates with Derek Hale, Scott’s, Allison’s and Lydia’s shock, Allison’s tears, Scott’s trembling hand – and of course Derek Hale.

Focus.

He needs to focus.

None of this is important now.

This situation is extremely dangerous and – really, what were those grown-ups thinking?

Shouldn’t they be more responsible?

How could Deaton, old Mrs. Allen and his dad allow him to come to school?

Stiles is miserable.

Imagine feeling like an active herd of a deadly disease to which only you are immune.

No, not pleasant at all.

He’s shuffling over to his desk by the window – and Scott, Lydia and Allison aren’t the only ones watching him.

Jackson Whittemore is sitting in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest, lips a grim line and his eyes following Stiles as he passes by in front of his desk.

Right.

Stiles wonders what Jackson knows – what he assumes.

Surely Lydia shared her suspicions with her boyfriend?

But then again – right now, Stiles couldn’t care less about what Jackson’s thinking. His glee at the fact that Jackson heard Scott refuse Derek Hale’s offer to join his pack loud and clear is long gone.

They sort of evaporated after the whole awakening to the sounds of the universe and almost-massacre thing last Friday.

“Where were you, man?,” one of Jackson’s bulky werewolf friends is saying. He gives him a slap on the shoulder that looks pretty painful and it’s only now that Stiles realizes that Jackson’s clothes aren’t torn, that his nose isn’t bloody.

Jackson returns Stiles’ glimpse with a gloomy stare, then slowly moves in his chair and snarls, “I had something else to do.”

“Something – what are you talking about, man?,” the beta laughs, “Something better than taking your shot at beating the alpha? Aren’t you the dude who fought him for the first time when you were, like, in kindergarten or something?”

“Grade school,” Jackson grits out, staring stubbornly ahead.

“Leave him alone, Tyler,” Lydia sighs. And then, a distinct edge to her voice, “Jackson is _sulking_.”

“Woohoo,” the beta hollers and a few others join in. “Your woman says you’re sulking, man. What’s that about? Are you, er, pursuing a different plan now? Did you ask Derek Hale to mate you – and he _refused_?”

Stiles feels like someone dropped a block of ice into his stomach.

At least, for the first time since he’s known him, Stiles can empathize with Jackson just the tiniest bit.

When he gets a glimpse at his face a moment before their teacher walks in, Stiles can see that Jackson looks ready to murder someone.

 

 

 

The day turns out to be one of these that are _right on the edge_.

Not as bad as expected.

Not particularly good either.

Fitting, kinda, considering that Stiles, too, is sort of walking a thin line right now.

That is – he’s _currently_ fine.

But he also lives through panic attack after panic attack because his stress levels are just too high.

It’s right in the middle between highly unpleasant and downright terrifying.

What really doesn’t help is that five minutes into the third period, a voice suddenly says over the loudspeakers,

“ _Stiles Stilinski into the principal’s office. Stiles Stilinski – please report to the principal.”_

Allison and Lydia both turn around to stare at Stiles – and so of course does the rest of the class, but obviously for a different reason.

_What kind of trouble has the new kid gotten himself in now?_

Stiles packs his things with trembling fingers while Scott watches him, a sympathetic look on his face.

“You’re excused,” Mrs. Redbird says to him. And then, “We will be discussing the aftermath of the Night of a Thousand Crystals this session,” and Stiles’ heart is beating, beating, beating.

He remembers that.

He remembers this session, or that is – he _remembered_ it on Friday.

So it’s true.

He’d been remembering the future.

When he walks up to the blackboard to hand Mrs. Redbird his essay, his feet feel oddly numb. Turns his head, almost involuntarily to find Jackson gazing at him intently.

Then he walks out and as soon as the classroom door has closed behind him he spots a tall, very pale figure at the end of the hallway – the _other_ end of where Stiles is _supposed_ to go – beckoning him to draw closer.

It’s Mr. Harris.

Of course it is.

Stiles hesitates. Turns his head one way, then the other. Then, slowly, he starts walking away from the teachers’ lounge and the secretaries’ office.

“I was _fearing_.... that you might fall – _asleep_ on your way here. Mr. Stilinski...,” Harris whisper-hisses, but he holds the door for Stiles to step in.

So, that’s Harris’ office, mh?

He’d expected it to look like Snape’s office – crammed with strange creatures swimming in glass containers. Or, you know. Walls decked with sketches of supernatural anatomy. Along those lines.

What he did not expect was a white and sterile looking room that smells like – absolutely nothing.

Not even sanitizer – _nothing_.

Stiles swallows when he realizes that this is the kind of working place a serial killer might appreciate.

Harris takes a seat behind his desk and points at a chair opposite him that Stiles, very reluctantly, takes.

Harris in front of his empty, white wall is the oddest view.

His lips and complexion are so pale beneath his dirty blonde hair they seem to bleed into the background.

“You, er,” Stiles clears his throat, “er – wanted to – talk to me – mh, I assume?”

Harris considers him for a moment before he answers which Stiles interprets as sheer harassment – because it’s not like he hadn’t already been staring at him before.

“You assumed – _correctly_. The principal – does not know about your – _condition_. As of yet.”

Stiles frowns and, without thinking, responds, “But – isn’t he wondering why he’d want to see me if he didn’t, actually, want to see me? I – I mean, since he obviously wasn’t the one-”

“The _principal_...,” Harris says quietly and Stiles immediately shuts up, cheeks reddening, “... is currently out of town.”

Stiles opens his mouth for an “Oh.”

“ _Anyway_...,” Harris continues, “... Mr. – _Stilinski_....,” touching the tip of his pale, long index finger to the silver rim of his glasses, “I did not want to – _pass up_... the chance to document your – _unique_... _situation_.”

The last two words are spoken with his trademark faint voice, but with such emphasis nonetheless that Stiles’ heart starts beating even faster.

Which, of course, Harris can hear loud and clear – and it seems to sound delicious.

Harris’ tongue darts out to lick his lips.

It’s not a vulgar gesture, but the quickest and most subtle thing – like a lizard – and Stiles feels like he has a handful of ice cubes rattling around in the pit of his stomach.

Harris then proceeds to ask him questions that Stiles answers truthfully.

He’s pretty sure that no one actually authorized Harris to do this – at the same time, he doesn’t really see a point in antagonizing him, especially because who cares if he knows about Stiles’ sleeping pattern and that he’s been feeling drowsy.

After a couple of minutes of questions after his physical condition, Harris holds up differently-colored cards, one after the other and asks him to describes what he sees – and Stiles does.

He has just reached the fifth one – a beautiful indigo one – when a clutter outside lets them jump.

Both of them – not just Stiles – which speaks to how engrossed Harris has been.

He rises from his chair, wearing an irritated expression on his face.

“That – _noise_...”

Harris moves over to the door, opens it and peeks out into the hallway.

Apparently he can feel what Stiles does – it’s like an invisible threat that is seeping into the office from the hallway, a stifling atmosphere, its source impossible to locate.

Harris turns back to the room, eyeballing Stiles warily, as if suspecting that he is somehow involved in it.

And it grows stronger, more pressing, Stiles can almost touch it and he swallows, rises from his seat. He has this distinct feeling that something – _something_ – is lurking outside.

Something dangerous.

Predatory.

“Okay,” Harris says, and his voice is fainter than usual. He returns to his desk, then looks up at Stiles.

“I think I have – _assembled_... enough data. For now.”

Stiles takes that to mean that he is dismissed.

He quickly picks his backpack up from the floor and flees the room without another word. As soon as he’s out in the hallway, Harris shuts the door behind him.

There is a pause of about two seconds, then he locks it and bolts it.

Seriously now?

Stiles frowns.

Then he raises his head, stares down the hallway.

It’s completely empty, but...

What _is_ this?

Stiles can physically feel it, the presence of something – _feral_.

He starts walking.

One foot after the other.

It’s probably not the smartest thing he ever did, but you have to understand – he simply _has to know_.

The darkness seems to grow, the closer he draws to the end of the hallway, even though it’s barely 11 a.m.

Then a figure separates from the shadows – and Stiles jumps about a foot into the air.

Sure, his eyes told him right away that it’s only Derek.

But – is it?

Never has he seen him so wild. Never has his aura been more feral.

His eyes are burning ruby red, but he’s not even wolfed out.

Then he moves.

Before Stiles knows what hit him, Derek has grabbed his wrist and dragged him around the corner, opened a nearby door and shoved him through.

The room Stiles suddenly finds himself in is the boys’ locker room.

Derek, of course, knew that.

Stiles finds himself unable to speak. He feels – knows – that Derek could hurl himself at him any moment and tear him apart – that he is wild and deadly.

Then Derek closes his eyes. Stiles can see his shoulders relax and, incredibly, the atmosphere of pure menace ebbs away slowly, like a dense mist that is dissolved by sunshine.

Of course no one would really associate Derek Hale’s regular demeanor with sunshine, but – you get the picture.

When he opens his eyes again, they are hazel and Stiles can’t keep himself from exclaiming, “Yeah! Awesome!”

Derek’s eyes narrow at that.

“You should have seen Harris, he almost peed his pants! And it’s been you all the time? For a moment there, I really thought something right out of a nightmare would jump at me and rip me into tiny little shreds.”

“Oh, I can still rip you to shreds,” Derek says, his eyebrows going up.

“Yeah, but – would you survive attacking a _spark_? I think _not_ ,” Stiles gives back, grinning cheekily.

For a heartbeat, Derek has this surprised look on his face – almost vulnerable – and Stiles has no idea what it means.

Then his face slams shut.

“You should feel lucky I got you out of there,” he mutters, “What were you thinking? Volunteering all that information to Harris?”

This brings a frown to Stiles’ forehead.

“I don’t know... he’s my teacher and he asked?”

Derek actually facepalms at that.

“Are you completely out of your mind? You still don’t have a fucking clue what all of this means, don’t you...”

“And how could I? No one tells me anything,” Stiles defends himself. “Did you wake up one day and go like: _oh, so that’s what it means to be an alpha, well, alright then._..”

“I don’t sound like that.”

“For all I know, that’s how it was.”

Derek looks him up and down for a moment.

“Okay,” he finally says, slowly, “okay. Fair point. Then let me explain this to you – in words you understand.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at that.

He is not used to people talking with him like he’s a little slow on the uptake. People talking down to him – hell yeah, _that_ he knows. But other than that, he’s usually been quicker than anyone else in the room at making connections.

Only, this time, there’s really nothing to connect.

There’s only: maybe it’ll work like this, maybe not, who knows.

Yes, Stiles, it’s chance.

Not fate, not destiny or bad luck, just – chance.

Just –

Stiles eyes go wide.

Derek is saying, “All Harris wants is categorize you – classify you, rank you – you get that? And it’s not for your good – or for anyone’s. Next thing you’ll know that guy’s gonna be measuring your cranium to add to that creepy collection of his... Put you in a museum so he can marvel at you. Stiles?”

But there’s a tune in Stiles’ head that is so – so consuming, so all-encompassing that Stiles doesn’t hear anything anymore.

Chance.

It’s chance.

That’s _it_.

His body is so light. He feels like his feet are only gently touching ground with this reality while his head is in the stars and the lights, all the lights – they’re so beautiful, his heart is almost bursting with color and he’s out in the open, nothing around him, but space –

Derek is looking at him intently.

“Stiles. Stiles!”

His brows are furrowed – he looks annoyed, but Stiles only perceives it at the edges of his consciousness.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Still, it’s that sentence that kicks Stiles off the ground for good.

He heard it before, but he forgot where it was.

Derek Hale’s hazel eyes become larger and larger and start sparkling until Stiles feels like he’s _inside_ of them, it’s absolutely crazy and then

he’s just falling

_through_

 

 

and it’s the broadest, most oceanic feeling

he looks at time, all the pasts, presents and futures

flowing together in a slipstream of dimensions

and the raw power

life itself

sound

he

 

 

 

 

 

comes to with a gasp.

Immediately knows what happened, too.

This was the third time – the third time he gave in to his spark, but this time was different.

Oh, thank God.

Stiles did it _voluntarily_ and, somehow, he managed to return to himself right away.

Or didn’t he?

Where _is_ he?

Stiles blinks.

He’s only now becoming aware of something pressing into his chest, pushing into him so forcefully, in fact, that he can hardly breathe.

He inhales, forces air into his lungs and smells – him.

Derek.

And he smells – good.

Stiles finds himself boxed in between the tiled wall of the locker room and Derek Hale’s steel body.

Why though?

He has no idea, none, his mind is a total blank.

Derek is breathing into him. He’s holding Stiles pinned against the wall, his face nuzzled into the curve of his neck and –

Stiles’ heart goes absolutely crazy when he realizes that he’s kissing –

no.

Not _kissing_.

It’s his teeth.

Derek’s teeth gently push into the soft skin on Stiles’ neck.

He’s wolfed out and panting, apparently it had taken him all the strength he could muster to embrace Stiles and shove him into the wall when he, stupidly, gave in to his spark.

“Stiles,” Derek gasps. “ _Fuck_!”

“All good,” Stiles breathes, “I’m here, I’m here, it’s fine!” His voice, somehow is gone and he’s painfully aware that he’s –

Oh, my _God_.

He’s sporting a boner.

Holy shit.

He closes his eyes.

He cannot _fucking_ believe this – but, _God_ , Derek’s body feels –

That’s the moment Derek chooses to take a step back. Stiles, unprepared, just collapses on the tiles and he’s –

Sweet Jesus.

He’s a total mess.

He’s panting and his heart is out of control, skipping beats and going slow then crazy fast, then slow again –

and he’s horny, like seriously horny and –

He just had a massive fucking revelation.

 _Chance_.

Telling himself to hold on to it. Never let it go. It’s the _key_ , you see?

But first –

Derek is looking down on him, face unreadable, and Stiles – he fears his reaction.

“I – I’m sorry,” he forces out, still trying to calm the fuck down, “I’m – I shouldn’t have – I-”

Derek squats down in front of him, an earnest look on his handsome face.

“If I hadn’t been there, you-”

“I _know_!”

And now of course, Stiles feels like sobbing. His eyes are watery, but he can hold the tears back.

“I didn’t break the skin,” Derek says. Stiles can tell that he’s exhausted. He’s staring at a point in the curve of Stiles’ neck. Stiles’ fingers shoot up and he touches the spot. It’s raw – but it also tingles. He feels like – oh, _my God_.

He has to close his eyes at that.

So that’s what that means.

 _Mating_.

The claiming bite.

And Stiles finally understands – holy shit, he understands what it _means_ – and, what’s even worse, that he _wants_ it. It’s like – _no_. Stop it, Stiles.

Not now.

Focus.

Fucking focus for once in your goddamn life.

You already made a total and complete fool out of yourself, don’t force Derek to go miles out of his way to keep you rooted in this reality a second time.

“Thank you,” Stiles says meekly.

“You just,” Derek starts, slowly, then licks his lips that are, somehow, very dry all of a sudden, “you just did – _something_. I could never have contained you – an alpha can be an anchor, but only a spark is capable of keeping another spark at bay – and even that does not always work...”

He gazes intently into Stiles’ eyes.

“What did you do? You just – while we talked – you understood something – didn’t you? Or I’d be dead now.”

Stiles can only nod, the turmoil of feelings inside of him is overwhelming.

And then of course – there’s _this_ thing.

The faint humming, melodic and far away, like the whole of human music wrapped into a single tune and it’s the most beautiful thing Stiles has ever heard, but DON’T LISTEN TO IT.

It’s not evil, no, this category no longer applies to anything, has become completely meaningless, but –

Stiles may never want to come back from it again, just dissolve into the beautiful multitude of sounds, harmonic and disharmonic and other.

“ _Stiles!_ ,” Derek says sharply, then curses. Stiles stares down at the tiles unhappily.

Yeah.

He just did it again, didn’t he.

Almost slipped away again.

He’s a catastrophe and right now – he can’t guarantee for anything.

“I have to go back to class,” he mumbles. “What am I supposed to do?”

Derek just looks at him for a few moments.

Then he shakes his head and snorts out, “ _Fine_!”

“Wh-what?”

“Okay, but – you’re going to fucking practice!,” he hisses, “And you’re starting right after school. This _cannot_ happen again.”

Stiles doesn’t understand.

When he doesn’t move, Derek barks, “ _Neck_!” and Stiles flinches – then tilts his head to the left, exposing the gentle patch of skin that already carries the alpha’s faint scent.

He’s almost vibrating out of his skin when Derek extends his right hand. While reaching out for Stiles’ neck it melts into a claw, long nails grazing Stiles’ skin and he can’t help it.

He shudders.

Derek’s eyes darken at that, whether it’s out of annoyance or something else, Stiles can’t tell.

He screws his claw around Stiles’ shoulder, his long monster fingers slipping underneath Stiles’ hoodie.

“I’ll do it in a way no one will detect my scent,” Derek grits out. For some reason this seems to exhaust him – almost like he has to stay extremely focused to accomplish whatever he means to do.

“I just hope it will be enough. My scent of course would be what would best root you.”

Stiles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Derek’s thumb. He can feel the tips of Derek’s big claw press into the skin that is stretching over his spine to form a fan-shaped pattern on Stiles’ back while his thumb is folded around Stiles’ jugular like a collar.

It’s difficult to say whether Derek wants to mark or kill him and because he’s a nervous wreck, Stiles can’t stop himself from saying so.

Derek halts, glaring at Stiles with an expression on his face that is deep and dark.

“Never joke about that,” he snarls, voice a low, feral rumble, “The day may come when the only way to stop you is me ripping your throat out – so hope – _pray_ – and struggle as hard as you can – that it may never come to that.”

They lock eyes, one pair narrowed and hazel, the other amber and wide open, full of fear and shock.

Then Derek bends the knuckles on his fingers, gently exerts pressure onto his claws until they – slowly, softly, but at the same time inescapably – puncture Stiles’ skin.

Stiles hisses and works his jaw. The pain is like a stab with a thick needle, but minimal – it’s okay, perfectly bearable.

And he can feel it immediately – the effect. Like a neck massage that finally relieves you of a throbbing headache.

Stiles can’t help it – before he’s really aware of what he’s doing, he is leaning into Derek’s grip on his throat, tilts his head so his cheek rests against Derek’s claw, his eyes fly shut, his features relax. His whole body becomes limp almost, soft.

“This – is really good,” he mumbles, not even aware of the sexual undercurrents of what they’re doing here. He just knows that Derek brought him the relief he’d been seeking – needing so desperately – since Friday.

Peace.

For now.

 

 

 

It only lasted a few seconds of course.

Derek jerked his hand back all of a sudden and when Stiles’ eyes flew open again, the alpha was already on his feet, his back toward Stiles, barking at him to go back to class and then, to go home and _fucking practice, for fuck’s sake_.

Stiles hadn’t even minded being yelled at. The aftermath of whatever it was that Derek had done there thankfully lingered for a while and – there’s more.

While walking in the direction of the history classroom, carrying his backpack by the top handle with his right hand, Stiles can distinctly feel a burning sensation around every one of the four little cuts that span almost the whole breadth of his back, from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

Like sparks, tiny flames of healing are waiting, ready to seal the holes back up – but Stiles doesn’t let them. It’s the oddest sensation – his shirt grazing over the small wounds, causing them to burn, but then being able to lean into that feeling because it’s almost like a ghost hand – Derek’s ghost hand – is still resting on his back, soothing him.

Stiles can feel Derek’s strength, his calmness, the way his wolf connects him with everything animate and – it’s overwhelming almost.

Intimate.

Keeping his spark at bay, consciously preventing it to seal the wounds up deepens that sensation. Makes it even more meaningful.

For the moment, Stiles doesn’t want to think about the fact that the relationship between a spark and an alpha is apparently always a highly sexual one – nor does he want to consider what it means that Derek absolutely refuses to go a step further to secure balance and mate Stiles.

That, in fact, he’d rather kill him than mate him, if Stiles should suddenly pose an uncontainable threat.

Isn’t that what he said?

But no – don’t think about that now. It will only get you down.

Now he wants to savor the calmness humming inside of him and recover. Push down the low key arousal, too, that is undeniably just _there_ , and it’s like a knot in his neck screaming to be dissolved. Wanting for Derek to break his skin – not with his hands, but with his _teeth_ , and to breathe against -

Fucking _stop_ it.

Stiles inhales deeply.

Then grabs the handle – knocks – and opens the door to the history classroom.

Of course the first thing he sees on entering is Mrs. Redbird holding a piece of chalk in her right hand.

She just finished drawing a long arrow on the blackboard, from left to right, above it a row of historical dates,

_Night of a Thousand Crystals, June 30, 1865 → Windiigo Conspiracy → War of 1865 → Grand Confederacy 1865-1910_

 

 

 

 

Stiles sticks his right hand into the pocket of his hoodie and touches the surface of the lacrosse ball with his finger tips.

Okay, so that was an awkward encounter with Derek Hale.

A _chance_ encounter, as Mrs. Allen would say.

Stiles snorts out a laugh.

It speaks to how done he is with the world that he can laugh about the one-on-one action he just got with a werewolf.

Not just a werewolf.

An alpha – _the_ alpha.

And, face it, a complete stranger.

And he fucking _liked_ it.

 _Okay_ , Stiles thinks to himself, _moving on._

It’s kind of difficult though because Allison is looking at him like _that_.

They’re in the cafeteria line and Stiles accidentally locked eyes with her over a fruit bowl.

Man, Allison picking up a green apple and then slowly taking a big bite from it while staring Stiles down is just – weird. Not sexy or anything. Just really, really weird.

“Er…,” he clears his throat. “Can I help you?”

Allison shakes her head absent-mindedly. Her jaw muscles are moving, but she’s not blinking.

“O-kay… er… just – doin’ some – heavy, er, chewing there, I see…? Good.”

For some reason, meat currently grosses him out and the only vegetarian dish on the cafeteria menu is cabbage soup. Stiles is not sure whether he appreciates the concept.

A piece of fruit hence doesn’t sound so bad.

He extends his hand and reaches for one of the apples. He means to wrap his fingers around it – you know, to pick it up like any regular person would do – but he never gets to it.

The things is this.

When he touches it, the apple _reacts_ to him. And, if we were being nitpicky here, we might say that it happened even _before_ Stiles touched it – his fingertips haven’t connected with the smooth green surface yet, but the intention is clearly there.

 _It_.

Meaning – on the one hand, Stiles gets the strangest feeling, almost like a pulse, a multitude of colors, a sense of freedom and, simultaneously – _containment_? It’s really hard to describe.

That in itself wouldn’t be so bad. While Stiles is shocked out of his pants again, there’s no time slipping, no purple light, no humming, no tune, no actual danger to anything but his own sanity.

But the other thing that happens, of course, is that the apple, suddenly and very violently, starts _blooming_.

Allison who’d been staring down at Stiles’ hand, presently flicks her eyes up to his face. She finishes chewing, swallows, then says, “Why’d you do that?”

“No idea,” Stiles says back while trying feverishly to hide the two white blossoms that have sprung up from the apple’s stern, along with a couple of leaves.

“I thought no one’s supposed to know?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” Stiles grits out, while going in his mind, _no, no, no, no, no, no!_

“A little help here?!”

Allison blinks – then, finally, seems to wake up. She quickly reaches out, snatches the apple up and unceremoniously rips off blossoms and leaves – a sight that, for some reason, saddens Stiles immensely. She smiles sweetly at a blonde girl who’d been eyeing Stiles suspiciously, and goes, “Organic. Can be such a drag.”

Then, after a long look at Stiles, “Just tell me what you want. I’ll pick it up for you.”

Stiles sighs and, unhappily, nods. He gives Allison his wallet and his order, then trudges along behind her with a sheepish look on his face, feeling silly and helpless.

But seriously – what on earth was that supposed to be?

He’s a _spark._

 _Not_ a clown.

He’d been terrified all day that he might do something horrible, so letting a dead piece of fruit sprout a handful of over-sized blossoms is ridiculously anti-climactic.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, he’s definitely not complaining.

It’s just – it’s maddening because it’s so not helping when it comes to finding out what it means to be a spark. What it is that sparks do. What _he_ really _is_.

Ten minutes ago, Stiles had considered pillaging the vending machines and then sitting outside by himself. Just he and his backpack and his cellphone.

Not sad at all.

He’d eventually decided against it because a) he wanted to be with Scott who wanted to be with him _and_ with Allison and b) he was almost certain that Derek Hale was still were-creeping around the premises and Stiles didn’t feel ready to look the alpha in the eye again just yet. He’s so ashamed because of what happened that the thought alone is still making him blush and wince and go, _“Oh… God… oh… no...”_

So far, so good.

The thing about the cafeteria is just – _everyone’s_ there.

Allison picks up a bowl of fries for him and even though she places them on Stiles’ tray, someone still goes,

“Hey, Argent! You’re house-elfing for weirdos now?”

Of course they’d target Allison, not him.

Because, you see, no one knows him.

Yet.

Stiles can see Allison open her mouth to spit out an angry remark, but Stiles quickly touches her shoulder, whispering, “Don’t. Not worth it.”

In hindsight, he should have known.

What would happen when he touches Allison’s shoulder with his fingertips – just with his fingertips, not even full contact, just the lightest of touches.

Or – that something _could_ happen. You know? Hypothetically.

So he should have left his pale long fingers in his pockets, wrapped around the lacrosse ball, where they belong, he really should have.

But he hasn’t.

So here we are.

The tray – the one Allison had been holding for Stiles – is on the floor, and so is the plate with French fries, the extra mayonnaise and ketchup. Oddly enough, the plate broke clean in half even though it didn’t even touch the tiles.

Bad luck.

The apples seem to be fleeing the scene. They have rolled in-between students’ legs and disappeared.

Then of course there was the loud bang. The noise the tray made when it hit the floor, followed by the hushed whisper of the surrounding students.

Heads turning.

People flicking their eyes down at the mess in front of Allison’s feet, then up to Allison who has jumped away from Stiles, hands clutched over her mouth again and Stiles -

oh, he knows her heart is beating, beating, beating.

He can hear it.

Worse.

He can sense it.

When he touched her, he felt like reaching directly into her soul. It wasn’t like seeing images, or anything. Or reading her thoughts, tapping into her memory, you know?

No. Not like that.

It was just – Allison.

Just Allison, everything she was, is, and will be, a world of potential, of maybe’s, wrapped into this very moment.

Raw and pure.

Intimate.

And Stiles is – shocked.

He didn’t mean to – he really -

“Second time in one day,” Lydia hisses and her voice sounds low and close to Stiles’ ear. She has stepped over the tray, crossed the puddle of shards, and grabbed her best friend’s arm.

Stiles is staring into Allison’s face – like everyone in their immediate vicinity – and he gets what Lydia means.

Tears are streaming down Allison’s face. They make their way down her cheeks in-between her fingers. A steady drop-drop down onto her black blouse.

“Nothing to see here,” Lydia hisses – louder this time and her voice causes something like an itch in Stiles’ neck.

The surrounding students only turn away because Lydia gives them each a nasty look, one after the other. Then she pulls Allison down with her, to the tiles to pick up the fries, put them back onto the tray to throw them away.

“What the frick, Alli?,” Stiles can hear her whisper-hiss. “I’ve never seen you cry before, and now twice – in one day? What on earth happened?”

“He _touched_ me, Lyds, he _touched_ me,” Allison whispers back frantically, not even caring that every werewolf in the cafeteria could listen in, “here, right here,” she touches the spot on her shoulder that connected with Stiles’ fingertips, “and I – I –“

Allison lifts her head and looks up at Stiles, such a vulnerable expression on her face that Stiles swallows.

“I felt like-”

“ _Not here_ ,” Lydia hisses, but Allison keeps on talking.

“...like I was being – _unhooked_. Like he _unhooked_ me.”

Oh, fuck.

Stiles was already feeling guilty and now he’s – he’s horrified.

He can’t speak.

Neither can he move.

He’s – he did this. He fucking hurt Allison.

Not only did he intrude into the most intimate, the most private part of her – he almost ripped her out of this reality. Only by fucking _touching_ her.

Why couldn’t he let – her hair grow or something?

Holy fucking…

He’s frozen.

“Stiles. _Stiles_.” That’s Lydia again, but Stiles is not moving. He has locked eyes with Allison and she’s still crying and it’s a fucking mess and that’s it for him.

Stiles is pretty sure that that’s it and he doesn’t even care.

He thought he’s had such a good start at Beacon Hills High, far better than he ever expected, and now everything’s in ruins.

“Come on.”

Lydia has grabbed his sleeve and is pulling at him, signaling for him to move. “You’ll get my pasta.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles finally says and his voice isn’t working right. “Allison, I’m so sorry-”

And then they’re at the table.

Stiles is hovering awkwardly behind Lydia, shoulders slouching, unsure where to look. Allison is not with them yet, she went to get a new tray and Stiles can feel her walking over to the fruit bowl again and it’s making him a little nauseous.

It’s almost like he connected himself with Allison on a primal level. While the feeling is already ebbing away, he knows he crossed a line there. He did something outrageous, took something that wasn’t for him, or for anyone to take.

“I’m not sitting with that – _freak_ ,” an angry voice is saying now and Stiles snaps out of his thoughts.

Lydia has put down her tray and is staring at her boyfriend, arms akimbo, and Jackson is staring back up at her defiantly.

“Stop making a fuss, Jackson,” Lydia hisses, but this time, Jackson doesn’t avert his eyes. If anything, his face grows a little colder, his look more determined.

“No,” he says emphatically. “I’m not going near – _that_ ,” eyes flicking over at Stiles for a second.

Lydia is glaring at him. She’s so angry, her full lips have become a thin, white line, she’s pressing them together so tightly. Stiles can practically feel the argument forming in her brain, all the things she wants to hurl at Jackson, but the thing is this.

People are watching.

Everyone is watching, and, really, Stiles gets it. Not only has Allison Argent been seen carrying a tray for some kid and behaving strangely, no.

Lydia Martin, the queen of Beacon Hills High herself, seems to be chaperoning the same pale kid around. He’s behind her now, carrying himself awkwardly and, what’s more, Jackson is afraid of him.

There’s many weres present and they can sense Jackson’s heart beating louder, his whole demeanor growing stressed, kind of anxious.

Sure, there’s always some of that mixed into every interaction he has with his girlfriend, but – no, this is different, somehow, and it’s already creating the most delicious piece of gossip the school has known in years. It’s even better than that one time when Finstock had been rumored to have mated a common puffball in a secret ceremony.

So, Jackson is staring at Lydia who is glaring back at him – until she pivots on her heel.

“Fine,” she says, wiping her strawberry red hair back over her shoulder. Head held high, as always.

“Fine. Come on, Stiles.”

And she stomps off, only pausing to snip her fingers at Scott to follow her.

This is unheard off.

Lydia Martin not yelling Jackson down – but actually giving in. Walking away.

Unbelievable.

Stiles can hear Danny say to Jackson, “What was that about?” but Jackson doesn’t respond. He is staring down at his plate darkly, stabbing pieces of carrot with his fork as if each of them had personally insulted him.

“He doesn’t know,” Lydia says to Stiles when she puts her tray down at a different table, far away from where Jackson is sitting. Four boys immediately shoot up from the benches and scurry away to make room for her. She pays them absolutely no mind.

“What are you waiting for?” Lydia hisses at him. “Sit.”

Stiles is blinking – then slowly takes a seat next to her.

Next to Lydia fucking Martin.

The looks on people’s faces.

And – did Lydia just explain herself to him?

_He doesn’t know._

Who doesn’t know what?

Did she just – did Lydia just excuse Jackson’s behavior – to him, Stiles?

What the actual fuck.

“He doesn’t know – huh?”

Lydia snorts and rolls her eyes.

“You need to be quicker than this, Stiles.”

Does she mean that Jackson doesn’t know about the fact that Stiles is a spark?

But – how could that be?

Jackson is smart – Stiles knows he is – and he was there.

What’s more, he was the first one to suspect – the first one out of all of them.

“He has – _issues_ ,” is all Lydia is willing to share, and when she speaks, her tone is sharp, sort of. It sounds very much like, _End of discussion, period dot._

Then they’re joined by Allison and Scott and, oh.

People are staring at them.

Lydia Martin, high school queen, and Allison Argent, beautiful warrior, sitting at a table with that loser Scott McCall and a tall, pale kid no one knows.

So fucking odd.

“You alright, man?” Scott is saying now. He’s smiling kindly at Stiles whose heart throbs at the sight.

So Scott isn’t angry with him?

Stiles was convinced he just managed to lose the best and only friend he ever had.

Because he’s such a massive freak and almost threw his crush into a different dimension.

Speaking of which.

Allison is still a little shaky, it’s easy to tell from the way she just can’t fork up a particularly obstinate noodle. She looks up and meets Stiles’ eyes.

Smiles.

Stiles finds himself smiling back, infinitely relieved.

“Sorry,” he says to her again. “I – I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine,” she interrupts him. And then, “….not here.”

Then they’re eating in silence. The oddest and most intriguing combination of high school students since The Breakfast Club.

 

 

 

“Scott, I wanted to-”

“Buddy,” Scott says, turning to him. “One last time. It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

Stiles stares down at the ugly squirrel on Scott’s ratty sweater.

“But Allison-”

“Will be okay.”

When Stiles lifts his head, he is met with a wide smile.

“She’s strong, Stiles. The strongest,” he says proudly and Stiles nods, yeah.

Yeah, that’s true.

He knows.

He knows all about it, down to the last and most remote fiber of her being.

 _God_.

What has he done.

Derek is right, this can never happen again, none of this.

Stiles needs to practice asap, and he thinks – he thinks he finally knows how.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” Stiles says, “We still have ten minutes.”

“Probably more,” Scott yells after him. “Finstock’s usually late.”

But Stiles has already vanished around the corner.

He needs to try out his theory – it can’t wait. No, it would be absolutely irresponsible to wait. Even for another hour. Seems like he didn’t do anything serious to Allison, but he could have. And – who really knows what it is that he did.

Not even Alan Deaton and Prissy Allen can understand some of the things Stiles has seen.

He’s a time-bomb.

He could go off any second.

The bathroom door swings shut behind him and Stiles steps up to the mirror, considers himself.

Tapping into that moment again, that moment earlier that day, in the boys’ locker room with Derek.

When he _saw_.

Understood.

All this time, he got it completely wrong.

You see?

He’s been trying to exert control.

And when that didn’t work – more control.

Because – that’s how things are supposed to function, right?

You do one thing, you get a result. You do something else – you get a different result. Predictable.

Logical.

Ha. And there he’d been trying his hardest to find the underlying pattern.

But the thing is – there’s always something you can’t predict. Something that’s off, that you never factored in.

Chance.

Like a story about wood ducks when you were expecting the combined wisdom of the universe. What Deaton’s books were really teaching him.

Anti-climactic, unpredictable, ironic.

Something you couldn’t have foreseen and the key isn’t control.

It’s acceptance.

So Stiles – he must not push his spark down. He can’t anyway, it’s too powerful, the endeavor absolutely pointless.

No.

No more.

Stiles is standing in front of the dirty mirror. He can see the cabins and urinals behind him, the greenish tiled walls – and himself. His pale face beneath dark hair that’s cropped way too short, his cheek bones, skin sprinkled with moles that he always hated, the long lashes.

He has locked eyes with himself.

Irises amber with specks of dark brown and light orange, but then, there’s a new color burning around his pupils, _alive_ , eternal and all-consuming.

And then he gives in to his spark.


	5. RADIOACTIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Stiles' awakening, part two.
> 
> Contents: Jackson’s reaction – Corey has a question – strange gifts – Derek takes Stiles on a road trip
> 
> Does not contain: the rest of the world learning that Stiles is a spark; that’s for ch. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your unfaltering support and patience guys <3 I will not give up on this story, but chapters might take a little longer than they did in the beginning, so it makes me really happy to know that people would still be reading it & waiting for this <3
> 
> warning: extremely slow-paced narration as usual
> 
> also: I know my English is not always smooth - and sometimes just dead wrong - but I'm trying my hardest - and sometimes the story HAS to go a certain way bc I don't have any other words (yet; I'm on it every day, I swear!); so again, thank you all for being patient with me <3

“Welcome to the new age.”

(“Radioactive”)

 

 

The door creaks when Jackson pushes it out of the way.

He’s in a stall in the second floor boys’ bathroom and fucking Stilinski is weirding around by the sinks, he knows he is. Jackson already knew it was him the moment he came stumbling through that door and now that guy, he’s just hovering there, apparently, just like the little freak he really is.

Something about him, okay?

It’s off, it’s strange, can’t be put back, not made right.

He just knows this to be true.

It’s with his deepest instincts that Jackson can sense the danger about this kid, the inexplicable aura he’d felt several times already, when he pushed Stiles up against the lockers, and then a day later, out on the lacrosse field.

And then, Stilinski, right?

On Friday, he went and attracted _something_ – whatever it had been – that basically blew up a part of the school. It’s why they have chemistry – when they actually have chemistry – in a fucking _tent_ now.

It’s all Stilinski’s fault.

Well, that, and their principal is a fucking joke, of course he would come up with the most ridiculous solution to several blown-up classrooms.

But he’s been telling everyone, Danny, Lydia – especially Lydia, but no, bitch wouldn’t listen. Of course not.

No one ever listens to _him_.

They almost got killed – and how did Lydia react?

Buried herself in fucking books, almost like Jackson was dating some kind of weirdo.

Even put her nerdy glasses on, ugh.

God.

Jackson _hates_ those, they’re so ugly.

He didn’t even want to hear about - - - no, honestly?

He’s not interested.

If you ask him, the sheriff should be hunting that thing that attacked them – and, yeah, it was something _powerful_ and freakishly scary – and Stilinski should be locked in a cage in Deaton’s Clinic of Supernatural Creatures (commonly known under its older name, the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic) long ago.

Like, last Friday.

But of course not, no.

Stilinski is here in school, with them. Like a – like a human fly strip for monsters.

Why you ask?

Because it just so happens that Stilinski is the sheriff’s own fucking son.

Ha, isn’t that perfect?

But Jackson’s done.

This town is the last dump, and he, Jackson Whittemore, is gonna be the one telling everyone a week from now that he _told them so_.

Of course, in a week there probably won’t be much left of Beacon Hills, but then, really, _he_ couldn’t care less.

And, again, okay?

He _warned_ Lydia. He can’t stress that enough. How he fucking _told_ her about the lacrosse ball and Stilinski’s eyes.

But instead of staying away from Stilinski the way she should, she’s actually seeking out his presence.

Suicidal much?

So, Jackson’s angry.

He’s fucking livid.

And don’t even _mention_ that goddamn loser, Scott McCall.

That the Alpha – that Derek Hale would – that he – no, he can’t even _think_ about it, it makes him so _angry_.

Oh, Jackson is furious.

And Stilinski is right there.

Time to give it back to him. It’s only for everyone’s best, yes? Stilinski needs to know that he’s not wanted here, that his freak ways aren’t welcome in Beacon Hills.

Jackson will find a way to show him without having to touch the weirdo because last time, last time Stilinski gave him an electrical shock or something and Jackson can basically still feel it.

So, no touching.

Easy, right?

He’s just gonna kick him.

Jackson is stomping out of the stall, not even bothering to slam the door shut, just walks out of there and –

The first thing he sees is Stilinski’s back – he’s taller than you’d think, broad shoulders.

Black hoodie today.

And that stupid five-dollar-haircut of his, God.

Can you be any more pathetic than that?

Stilinski is so pale and awkward, Jackson is almost sorry to make his life hell.

Ha.

 _Almost_.

“ _Hey_ , St-”

And that’s as far as he gets.

Because, you see, he’s right behind Stiles now and – he should have noticed before, that Stiles is carrying himself so weirdly. The fact that he’s perfectly immobile, seemingly transfixed by his own reflection in the mirror.

But, you have to understand.

Jackson is _really_ angry.

So he only sees them when he’s right behind Stiles.

His eyes.

In the mirror.

They’re burning purple out of their sockets and his _face_.

Holy God.

Jackson is frozen.

But it’s too late.

It’s already crumbling beneath him.

The ground.

And Stiles’ eyes in the mirror, they’re sucking him in.

Jackson opens his mouth.

And screams.

But the sound just evaporates.

 

 

 

It’s everywhere.

Beating.

Beating, beating.

The pulse.

Stiles has dissolved into it. He has given in to that humming, finally.

It had been so irresistible.

So beautiful.

He has given in to his spark and nothing has ever felt better, more natural.

As easy as breathing.

As easy as dying.

When he did it, he wasn’t even scared anymore. He could see the purple flame coming on gradually behind his eyes, his own features becoming less and less human. Not that they changed or anything, just – once he realized that he wasn’t human, he simply stopped holding on to the category, too.

And he never looked away, see? Never broke eye contact with himself.

But that’s not what is keeping him anchored.

He’s not sure what is – and then, it doesn’t really matter anymore either.

All there is is the tune.

It blends times and places, but his body, it’s still there this time, he simply held on to it.

It’s Monday afternoon, just after lunch.

Yes.

Yes, true, but –

listen.

 

 

Standing with his back to the stalls in a second floor bathroom of Beacon Hills High, Stiles Stilinski can taste the wind in his mouth on a hot summer’s day four hundred million years ago.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he comes back, Scott is with him, but the taste on his tongue, it’s lingering and confusing him.

It’s like nothing he ever smelled or tasted before and it’s so disorienting, so completely consuming, that the only thing he does for a long time is alternate between opening and closing his mouth, not comprehending where or what he is.

He only realizes that people are screaming when Scott has already been shaking him for about a minute.

The last voice he picks up his Scott’s own, roaring at the top of his lungs, “STILES!!,” right next to his ear and that’s when he finally jumps.

Clutches his hands to his ears.

Scott’s voice is loud and painful and so is this reality, all the sensations that now come crushing back in on him, Scott’s scent, Scott himself in the flesh, breathing and so close to him, the flickering neon light above them, the smell of urine and chemicals.

And all those shapes and colors.

“ _Ow_ – what,” turning his head left and right, unable to shield himself from what sounds like a thousand voices, “what – is that _noise_?”

And then, finally, the bathroom slams back into place, and there he is again, fully himself, Stiles in his black hoodie and brown khakis and staring into Scott’s ashen face.

Deadly pale even though he’s fully wolfed-out.

He looks scared – panic-stricken – and, quite frankly, a little insane, yes, eyes almost welling out of their sockets, his curls even more disheveled than usual, mouth half open, features strained. Scott’s eyes are blinking golden at him. It’s the most beautiful and soothing color.

“Stiles!!” His voice almost gone, his grip on Stiles’ shoulders stronger than it should ever be with a weak human.

But then, Stiles, he’s not human.

And Scott _knows_. He’s shaking.

Completely terrified.

Of – what?

Of him?

Stiles swallows – and finally says, “I’m here, it’s good, what – what – l -”

“ _We need to get out_ ,” Scott snarls, features _not_ melting back to human. Almost as if he’s needing every ounce of his strength to hold on to Stiles.

“ _Now!_ ”

“Wh-why? What-”

And then they suddenly make sense. The voices.

Around him.

The yells and screams.

It’s hundreds of students and they’re crowding the hallways.

Panicking.

 

 

 

 

When the shock wave hit, Scott had already been out the door, on his way to the boys’ bathroom.

You see, their teacher had been done unpacking her books onto the desk and had started lecturing, when Lydia Martin had simply turned around in her seat and said his name loud and clear.

Cutting through the silence with her shrill voice, interrupting Ms. Hinako.

“ _Scott_!”

Scott had known then.

And he hadn’t hesitated.

Hadn’t even really heard Ms. Hinako shouting at him to _sit_ _down_ , giving Lydia the first strike of her whole high school career, ordering the rest of the class to _silence_. This is a classroom, not a funhouse, but, no, Scott hadn’t cared.

He’d already been out the door.

You see – Lydia is a banshee.

And banshees can feel death.

So he had known – when Lydia said his name and locked eyes with him, he had immediately understood what Stiles was about to do. What was about to happen. And his only thought was to reach his friend – he didn’t even know why.

No time to save Allison, or anyone else.

When the powers of a spark burst free, whole towns are swiped off the map in an instant. So it wouldn’t really matter where you are, but still. It’s basic instinct to flee.

Not Scott though.

He believes – he wants to believe that there is a chance – a slight chance – that Stiles can be stopped – and he’s wolfing out and thrashing down the hallway, thinking, _hoping_ that, maybe Mrs. Allen is there already just like she was last time to save the day. Or maybe the Alpha is with Stiles, maybe –

But it’s too late.

Scott is almost at the bathroom door when it happens.

 

 

 

An instant later, Scott is on the ground, chest heaving, not the slightest clue as to how he got there. He can hear people in the classrooms around him screaming, teachers yelling to _stay calm_.

His head is ringing from the massive pressure that makes it impossible for him to get back up.

The walls are vibrating.

The very ground is shaking. Scott is on all fours and it feels like the PVC is peeling away around his hands and feet.

This could pass for an earthquake if it weren’t for – the _power_.

And Scott is pretty sure that the reason he can feel it is not because he’s supernatural.

He can feel it because it’s _everywhere_.

 

 

Then Scott is struggling to his feet, and he’s shaking, sobs stuck in his throat. The feeling is massive.

Indescribable.

And he’s fighting, making his way – to the source of the power.

He can hear its heart ticking behind the bathroom door.

 

 

The first thing he beholds upon forcing the door open is Stiles himself, but – it’s not really _Stiles_.

Or – or, is it?

Scott is disoriented, his head is ringing, the room slipping out of focus, and it’s still way too strong, the gravitational pull, but this lanky kid in front of him – who else could it be?

He looks the same, yet so changed and just like last Friday, the mere sight takes Scott’s breath away.

He has never seen a face like this.

The otherworldly beauty of it takes all the strength out of his knees, but it can’t be.

He _has_ to stay strong.

For Stiles, for Allison, for everyone.

He needs to reach Stiles.

Scott gives himself a last push – and jumps. He takes a giant leap at Stiles and pulls him down to the floor with him, almost buries his frail body beneath him, cradling Stiles’ head in his arms to keep it from splitting open on the tiles, and there’s two things going through his mind. One, ‘ _holy fuck, I’m still alive_.’

And, two, ‘ _Where the hell is Derek?’_

And that’s when he spots Jackson.

Above Stiles’ head of dark, cropped hair, a shaking figure is crouching in the corner, eyes wide open in horror.

It’s Jackson and he’s shaking violently.

When Jackson hadn’t been there in the classroom earlier, Scott hadn’t really wasted a thought on him. Had assumed he’d just beat it for the day in his douchy sports. Wouldn’t have been the first time, right? A total Jackson move. Because everything here is so beneath him.

Now of course Scott gets that Jackson had been the unfortunate soul trapped in the bathroom when Stiles got consumed by his powers. And if Scott weren’t so out of it right now – if he weren’t tuned in to fight or flight, to his most primal instincts – he’d be more than a little gleeful as to the expression of complete and utter shock on Jackson’s face, the waves of fear rolling off of him.

Jackson is frozen in the corner, a few feet away from Stiles, staring at him, unblinking, and he is literally scared to death.

Scott ignores him.

For now.

Because Stiles – he is finally moving.

And Scott locks him in with the steel grip of his claws without even knowing why.

What’s he trying to do?

Mh?

Keep the spark from running?

Very funny.

But Stiles is already back again, he’s _Stiles_ again, and he’s blinking at him, his heart beating loudly and _fast_ , the aura of power gradually ebbing away, it’s being sucked back into his body, pulling all the air in the room in with it, warping time and space around them both.

Scott can see the color purple pulsating around the pitch-black pupils in Stiles’ his wide-open eyes, then flash brightly, brilliantly and beautifully, once.

Then it’s gone.

 

 

 

Stiles is feeling light-headed.

Coming back is like taking a long, deep, delicious breath of air, but now you’ve got too much oxygen in your blood and it’s making the colors around you look strange.

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

Or why Scott is dragging him up from the floor and then yanks him across the room so Stiles finds himself eye to eye with –

“Jackson?”

How strange his own voice sounds. Funny.

“Jackson, what’s the matter?”

But Jackson is just staring at him, sinking further back into his corner and Scott is gently pushing Stiles out of the way.

Then he is talking to Jackson who doesn’t even turn his head, never breaks eye contact with Stiles. Almost like Stiles is a predator out to get him the moment Jackson so much as blinks.

Almost funny, how he looks like he saw a ghost.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Jackson! We need to get out of here, I’m getting Stiles out of here now and – do you hear me? Jackson!”

Scott lets out a frustrated sigh, then hesitates for about a second before he grabs Jackson’s arm with his left hand, yanks him to his feet and pushes them both out into the hallway.

It’s complete chaos out there.

Stiles can just barely avoid colliding with a blonde freshman who doesn’t even look at him when her elbow hits his stomach. Next thing he know, he’s almost crushed by a huge beta.

“What are you doing, Stiles?”

It’s Scott screaming in his ear, trying to reach him over the turmoil in the hallway.

“Stay close to the wall!”

Stiles swallows and nods. He’s shaky and pressing his body flush against the wall, heart beating.

Jackson is gone.

He must have shaken off Scott’s claw, ducked into the crowd and disappeared.

“We should go back inside!,” Stiles is yelling now, motioning in the direction of the boys’ bathroom, and because Scott is a werewolf, he can pick up the words and he’s shaking his head frantically.

“No!”

And then, “They probably already know where it came from – if we stay here, they’ll get to you. And they _can’t_ get to you.”

And then he’s already hurrying Stiles along, pushing him through the crowd, only Stiles is walking in front of Scott while Scott is shielding him, his werewolf arms left and right of his body and if Stiles’ weren’t so out of it, he’d be seriously embarrassed about the amount of protection his best friend seems to deem necessary.

But then, it’s hell in here.

A deadly stampede of students heading for the exits, teachers nowhere to be seen.

And Stiles suddenly gets why that is.

Because they already looking –

for _him_.

Stiles turns his head to the right and left.

He thought he heard someone call his name.

“Don’t stop!” Scott is roaring behind him and Stiles stumbles and almost falls because Scott is urging him on relentlessly.

“-Stilinski!

Now he’s certain, someone _is_ calling his name, but –

It’s not a student.

It’s Harris.

Stiles can’t see him, but he can hear his voice cut through the noise in the hallway like a hiss that only he can pick up.

“Mr. Stilinski. _Mr. – Stilinski_!”

Scott is cursing behind him.

“STILES STILINSKI! STOP!”

“Fuck! This way, Stiles! Come on, come on, come on!”

Stiles has no idea why they’re trying to get away from Harris, or from any of the other teachers for that matter, but the fear in the hallway, the panic of hundreds of students, it got to him.

He will think about the irony of that later.

Now, Scott shoves him into a smaller hallway that’s emptying, safer.

He’s panting when he says, “Turn right at the next corner, then take the fire exit in the library. It’s a detour and that’s why there won’t be any students.”

“But-“

“ _Now_!”

“Scott, I-”

“ _I’ll deal with Harris_ ,” Scott snarls and that’s the moment Stiles spots Harris’ head sticking out above the heads of the students, his pale blue eyes set on them.

On him, Stiles.

That’s when he turns and runs.

 

 

 

Stiles has no idea what he’s doing. Once again.

He’s not even feeling guilty yet that he triggered a mass panic – that he is the one who caused – is causing – all these students to spill out of the building as if they were escaping a death trap.

He, Stiles, is why they’re screaming and running and crying.

Only, they don’t know it, yet.

But they will. And hate him for it.

Knowing this makes him feel sick to the stomach.

He didn’t _mean_ to hurt anyone, okay?

He _had_ to do this.

But they won’t understand. No one will.

Stiles tries to ignore the groups of frightened students he’s passing by, is making an effort to keep his gaze to the ground because he’s pretty sure that once he locks eyes with anyone here, they will all stop and stare at him and see him for what he is.

And he can’t have that.

So he’s sweating and tripping himself up while pushing his way through the crowd that is gathering in front of the school. He’s almost halfway there, at the parking lot, can already hear the angry honking, can sense the rows of cars stuck here, fifty drivers trying to leave at the same time, trying to bully each other into going faster, and he’s wondering how the hell he’s going to ever get out of there before Harris or anyone else can get to him – when he realizes that he doesn’t even have his keys.

They’re still in his bag that is sitting peacefully next to his desk in a second floor classroom as if nothing happened.

Okay, Stiles, just – _think_.

Never mind your keys now.

You’ll come up with something – only do it fast.

 

 

Then Stiles makes a decision.

He pulls the hood over his head, sticks his hands into the front pocket of his sweater and touches the lacrosse ball with his fingertips.

Then he pulls his shoulders up to his ears and starts walking.

It doesn’t really matter where he goes, if it’s away from the school. He’s always got some change somewhere in his pockets, a dollar or two in coins, and he might just hang out somewhere, get a candy bar and grab a free gas station coffee or something and then walk back to school once things have calmed down.

It’s not like anyone knows him in this neighborhood, or anywhere in Beacon Hills.

Yet.

 

 

On second thought, walking away like nothing happened with his black hood up when all hell seems to have broken loose behind him may not have been the smartest move.

People have come out of their houses, and they’re gathering on the sidewalk, soccer moms with their hands over their hearts and fathers who just came home from work, frantically speaking into their cellphones, calming their kids down, telling them to just stay where they are and be safe and that they’d be getting them in ten minutes.

Hushed whispers about a wave of power they all felt.

That made their walls vibrate and their washing machines and dishwashers stop.

Stiles is sweating.

“Hey,” someone calls to him, but he keeps his head down.

“Hey, you! Kid! What’s going on back there, at Beacon Hills High? Hey! Did you hear me?”

Stiles walks faster.

His mouth is really dry. He can’t look them in the eyes, he just can’t.

“Hey! Kid!”

But he’s already running across the street, back to where he came from.

Behind the school is the lacrosse field, right?

Right, and behind the lacrosse field, nothing but miles and miles of wood.

And that’s where he’s going.

He’s not really in the mood for coffee anyway.

 

 

It must have been hours.

Stiles has sunk to the ground in the shade of an old and beautiful tree. It’s whispering to him when Stiles rests his back against the rough bark. The skin on his back hurts, it’s stretching around the Alpha’s bite marks, and – it’s fine.

Stiles is fine.

He’s stable and he can wait.

 

 

 

“Who are you talking to?”

Stiles’ eyes fly open. He wasn’t even aware he was speaking, but he must have been.

You see, it’s really hard, listening to the trees around him humming, and not join in.

Stiles has stumbled to his feet, he’s blushing and for a few seconds, he doesn’t even know where the voice came from.

Then he spots him.

Jordan Parrish, his dad’s deputy just peeled out of the shades.

“Stiles?”

Stiles is staring down at his dirty sneakers.

“You okay?”

Just a shrug.

How would he know, after all?

Okay, what does that even mean?

“How’d you find me?”

“Well, one of us was bound to.”

“My dad out here, too?” Stiles says, his head snapping up and the first few droplets of guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“No,” Parrish says with a kind smile. “He’s dealing with – the, er – havoc.”

“At school,” Stiles says because he knows Parrish won’t.

“Mh,” a nod from the deputy. “With me I meant Dr. Deaton, Prissy Allen – and the Alpha.”

“Oh,” Stiles says.

What else could he say?

He’s pretty sure everyone is majorly pissed at him and Derek – Derek will probably rip his head off.

He won’t understand that Stiles _had_ to do this.

“Everyone – everyone at school alright?”

His voice is a barely audible whisper.

To his surprise, Parrish’s smile widens.

“Yes, Stiles. A couple of bruises and twisted ankles, but nothing serious. Everyone is fine.”

“Oh,” Stiles says again. A sound of relief, this time.

“Come on now. It’s getting cold and you must be hungry. I’ll drive you home. My squad car is this way.”

But Stiles doesn’t move.

“I – can’t go back.”

Another gentle smile. Parrish is actually holding his hand out to him.

“Of course you can. Your father will be relieved to get you back safe and sound and if you’re worrying about school – I took care of Adrian Harris earlier that day. I understand that he has been bothering you and he was – a little too eager – to help us search for you. The Alpha had a little – talk with him as well. He’ll leave you alone – for now.”

“But – but I-”

“Don’t worry about it now, Stiles. Come on.”

Silence.

Parrish waits patiently for Stiles to make up his mind, finally start moving.

And then they’re walking next to each other, Parrish talking into his cellphone and letting the cone of his flashlight glide over the forest ground in front of Stiles’ feet so he won’t trip.

“Ha…,” he suddenly says and it takes Stiles a few seconds to realize that he’s talking to him now, “this is the second time I’m taking you home, Stiles.”

“Mh… thank you,” Stiles says. “…sorry to cause this trouble.”

“Sorry? You gotta be kidding me! Stiles – it’s – it’s an honor.”

Thankfully, the darkness is hiding the blush on Stiles’ cheeks, but who knows what the deputy can pick up. He’s a hell hound after all – or whatever the correct term is now – and Stiles can feel the heat radiating off his body, ghost fire illuminating the darkness around them with a faint glow.

How odd, right?

That Stiles would feel awed in the presence of a supernatural being like Parrish, when it’s really he, Stiles, people are in awe of.

Because he’s more than supernatural.

Because he’s a spark.

Then they’re out of the woods and walking over gravel. Stiles has no idea where exactly they are, but he can see a solitary squad car sitting at the side of an empty road, and in front of it, a dark figure, its eyes burning red through the night.

“Derek,” Parrish says and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice and it baffles him, considering that the Alpha – from all they can see of him in the darkness – looks incredibly _pissed_.

And scarily powerful.

Stiles cannot meet the red eyes. The wound on his back is burning furiously and it makes him frown and his spark itch, like it wants to finally seal the skin around it completely, make the Alpha’s mark vanish.

Stiles is not sure if he can let that happen just yet.

Presently, it seems to be his anchor because if it’s not Derek’s bite mark – then what is?

Certainly not the lacrosse ball in his pocket.

“I’m taking Stiles home,” Parrish says and he simply walks up to the car and opens the passenger side door.

“Stiles?”

“Er,” Stiles says, unsure of what to do. Derek probably didn’t come all the way out here just to wave Stiles goodbye when he drives off with Parrish.

“I heard the dispatch,” Derek is saying now, confirming Stiles’ suspicion about his anger.

Yup.

Derek’s pissed. He might as well be already yelling at them.

“Yeah, figured,” Parrish says kindly. “That’s why you’re here?”

“I’m here to take Stiles with me.”

Parrish, who’d been leaning down to clear the seat of an empty pizza box, straightens his back again and when he turns around, even in the blackest night, Stiles can see the frown on his face.

“With… you? What do you mean, you’re here to take him with you?”

“Exactly how I said it.” Derek sounds like he usually doesn’t have to explain himself to people and like he’s not particularly enjoying this rare occasion.

“What – you mean – on foot?” Parrish lets out an incredulous laugh. “I’m sorry, but – we’re miles from town, it’s past 8, the kid is cold and hungry and needs to be returned to his father.”

“He’s not a kid. He’s _the spark_ ,” Derek says back in a low voice that sounds – yes, threatening. “And _I’m_ the Alpha.”

Parrish still has his hand on the door. For some reason Derek’s power mode that made Harris almost pee his pants does not seem to impress him.

“I’m aware of that.”

“And I need to know what happened at school.”

“You can talk it over with Stiles tomorrow. With all due respect, Alpha, but I can only hand a teenager over to his parents or his legal guardian. Or his mate.”

There is a short pause during which the two men look at each other.

Stiles is almost certain that Derek’s next sentence will be ‘But _I’m_ the fucking _Alpha_!,’ but Derek remains silent, just keeps staring at the deputy, his eyes human now.

Is this – a defeat?

Stiles can’t believe it.

Parrish has walked up to Stiles and, his hand on his back, guides him over to the squad car without a word.

Stiles can see Derek’s head turn. He’s almost certain that the Alpha’s eyes are glued to where Parrish’s hand is resting beneath Stiles’ shoulder blades, mere inches away from where he, Derek, left his mark.

“Yes?” Parrish says while Stiles is taking a seat. Stiles throws a shy glance to his right, at the Alpha because, yes, he heard it too, the low rumble from Derek’s throat.

A menacing snarl.

Whatever the hell it means – it’s definitely fucking scary.

“Derek?” Parrish says. “Do you need a ride back to town?”

“… no.”

“Okay, suit yourself. Goodnight, Alpha.”

Derek doesn’t respond.

When Parrish slams the passenger side door shut, Stiles can glimpse his figure moving in the oddest way, out there on the gravel, and then a shadow – not a human one – vanishes between silent tree trunks.

“What the--”

“He shifted,” Parrish explains and pulls the car door shut. He turns the key to start the engine. “In a sour mood today, our Alpha… okay, Stiles, you’ll be home in twenty minutes. Do you want me to turn up the heat?”

“But – isn’t it dangerous out there? I mean – you said we’re miles away from town.”

“Don’t worry, Stiles. He belongs with the woods and he knows them.”

“Mh,” Stiles nods without really understanding what Parrish means by _belong_.

He rests his head against the seat and closes his eyes. Now, in the warmth of the car with the engine purring around them like a cat, he feels comfortable and sleepy and Parrish is considerate enough to not try and strike up a forced conversation with Stiles. To just drive on in silence.

He can probably tell that all Stiles wants right now is his bed.

And for this long day be over, finally.

 

 

 

Stiles walks strange lands in his dreams that night, ancient continents under a younger sun while Beacon Hills is sleeping, its citizens still rattled but oblivious to what is about to come, unaware of the powers in one of them, asleep as well, for now.

 

 

He wakes up to the sound of high-pitched laughter the next morning, a cloudy Tuesday in Beacon Hills.

When he walks down the stairs ten minutes later, fully clothed, but still dead-tired, he’s wishing intently that he just _imagined_ it –

Sure his father wouldn’t – they have only been living together for two weeks, but, surely, he _must_ know by now that Stiles is not a morning person, and he wouldn’t –

When Stiles appears in the kitchen door, his father nods good morning to him, a cup of coffee in his hand and an apologetic smile on his face.

And there, on Stiles’ chair, a small person in an ugly blue-striped dress and a grey bun on the back of her head.

Mrs. Allen turns around and gives him a cheeky smile that makes her look less like the sublime creature people imagine sparks to be and a lot more like an evil sprite.

“And there is the golden boy,” she says and her voice sounds – like tree bark, there’s really no other way to describe it. Old and rough and wicked.

“Did no one teach you to wish an old lady a good morning?”

“Er,” the sheriff clears his throat. “As a matter of fact, we did. Stiles?”

Stiles glares at his dad.

Then he mutters, “G’ morning, Mrs. Allen…”

He shuffles over to the counter to pour himself a cup of coffee. Then, rubbing his eyes and suppressing a yawn, he slumps into one of the empty chairs at the table.

“Not a morning person, I see,” Mrs. Allen says.

Stiles simply ignores that remark. He takes a sip from his coffee and proceeds to stare at the vase in front of him, apparently a gift from Mrs. Allen because he is pretty sure his dad doesn’t own a vase, and certainly not one like this. There’s a swan on it with a little golden bow around its neck.

In it is a bouquet of the ugliest flowers he has ever seen.

“You did a good job there yesterday,” she says and Stiles looks up at her with surprise.

He’s pretty sure that she’s mocking him because – because he didn’t really do a good job – did he?

Sure, he managed to contain his powers for the first time ever – but he still caused a stampede of scared students and now everybody is talking about the second time something odd happened at Beacon Hills High within four days and the difference is this.

Last Friday, it could really also have been – a bomb, or a troll or a construction site accident.

This time?

There’s no denying the supernatural source of the incident.

So Stiles just stares at Mrs. Allen, going, “What- huh?”

“You heard me right,” she barks at him. “I knew you’d figure it out – how to do it, how to handle the power. You had that – look the other day. I told Alan – Alan, I said to him, Alan, this boy’s going to deal with it, and he might even be able to avoid doing a lot of damage.”

“ _Avoid_ damage?” the sheriff says, “Wait – wha – did you say, _avoid_?”

“Yes, John. Avoid.”

“But I…,” Stiles starts sheepishly, “I – caused a mass panic… and- everyone, all the students they just – fled the building.”

“Well, if you hadn’t done that you’d probably have killed all of them later that day,” Mrs. Allen says and that shuts them both up, the sheriff and his son.

Just has to take five sips from his coffee before he finally feels ready to say, “Poached salmon for you, Prissy?”

Mrs. Allen screws up her nose.

“Certainly not. But thank you.”

“Eggs and bacon?”

“I already ate. Thank you, John.”

“Alright then. Just for Stiles.”

The sheriff drops scrambled eggs and a few strips of bacon on the plate in front of Stiles who bows down to inspect it. He used to love bacon, now the smell of it is enough to make him nauseous.

“Stiles,” his father says, “Don’t sniff the food.”

Stiles scrunches up his nose, but doesn’t say anything.

When he raises his head, he meets Mrs. Allen’s clear eyes.

“Flesh memory,” she whispers.

“What?”

When she frowns, Stiles quickly corrects himself, “Er – I mean – I beg your pardon?”

“Flesh memory. Most sparks have it.”

Stiles’ eyebrows go up in understanding, but his father throws the old lady a puzzled look.

“Flesh – sorry?”

“ _Flesh. Memory_ ,” Mrs. Allen says slowly, “It means, picking up stories in the flesh.”

The sheriff looks utterly confused, but Stiles – he gets it.

Stories in the flesh.

“You mean,” he says and, oh, he’s awake now, completely, fully and horribly awake, “Mrs. Allen, do you mean to say that – the wall I’ve been seeing – that that was a _memory_?”

He swallows.

“Of – of the animal I – I ate?”

The burger that night when he went out with his dad that gave him this image and something like the echo of fear, stuck in his brain for hours.

Oh, he’s going to be sick.

“I said _story_ , not memory. It’s kind of a misnomer.”

But Stiles can’t say anything back. He pushes the plate far away from him and is pressing his fist against his mouth, trying hard to focus on the smell of the flowers, rather than the bacon and eggs.

Not only are the flowers butt-ugly, they also smell nasty.

Which is good.

Kind of tunes out everything else.

“Story, memory? I’m sorry, but could someone kindly explain to me why my son refuses to eat his breakfast?”

“There’s not really anything to explain, John. Just this: most sparks can hear – feel – _experience_ stories in the blood and flesh. Could be your own stories. Could be a story you heard. Could also be your great-great-great-grandmother’s story.”

“Stop,” Stiles mumbles. He heard enough and he knows exactly what it means.

God.

“Son, you’re pale as a sheet, what-”

“Just make him a cup of tea, John,” Mrs. Allen says and she suddenly sounds surprisingly sympathetic.

“Not the convenience stuff you have in that cabinet up there. Take the chamomile I brought.”

“I _hate_ chamomile,” Stiles mutters.

“You’re going to drink what your father gives you, kid,” Mrs. Allen says sharply, all the kindness gone from her voice again. “Tsss… _someone_ really should have taught you some manners.”

Then the sheriff, his ears bright red, sets to preparing the tea – apparently determined not to say another word for the next few minutes – and Stiles, still nauseous, is thinking.

What if –

“Does – it work with people, too? I mean, like – humans?”

“What about _flesh_ didn’t you understand?” Mrs. Allen says back and she is wrinkling her nose in disapproval.

Before she can turn to his father and say anything about Stiles not exactly being the brightest candle on the cake – or something along those lines, but in words that people would have used a hundred years ago, “Yesterday, I – accidentally touched Allison – er, Allison Argent, she’s a girl in my class – and I-”

But it’s impossible. Stiles can’t put words to what he felt and saw. _Sensed_.

It’s not necessary, either, because Mrs. Allen has this grin on her face like she _knows_.

His father looks at him like wanting to ask why Stiles goes around school touching random girls, but then he turns back to the counter, pours the boiling water over the tea bag.

“Can be quite a bummer in the beginning, right, I still remember my discovery of that particular spark skill. Quite overwhelming. I shut myself up in a dark room for almost a whole week, didn’t want to hear or see anyone or anything. Not even my mate, but I gotta say, boy – you’re handling it quite well.”

Another compliment?

Who would have thought.

So the old lady really isn’t pure evil after all. Stiles is beginning to think that she simply likes a good laugh.

She obviously paid them this early morning visit to be of use, to help, but at the same time, from the mischievous gleam in her eyes, she is also quite enjoying Stiles’ agony.

Weird.

But he can’t dwell on the particulars of Mrs. Allen’s character right now. Stiles has so many questions and since she mentioned it – “Your – your – _mate_?”

When Mrs. Allen gives him _that_ smile – kind, sort of, but also _knowing_ – he really wishes he hadn’t asked.

“My mate when I was sixteen. Alexandra Duffle.”

Stiles sits up straight, forgetting about his nausea, finally.

He blinks at the old lady.

“Alexandra? So you’re-?” – but then he shuts his mouth at the last moment.

Blushes deeply.

Did he just almost ask a ninety-something-year-old-lady about her _sexual orientation_?

That’s not a polite question to ask anyone, especially not someone who insists on being called _ma’m_.

“Yes?”

Mrs. Allen seems amused.

“I – I mean,” Stiles stutters, then reaches for the steaming pot of tea his father just placed in front of him.

Far too hot.

Of course.

But the chamomile, it smells nice.

“I – I mean, c-could you maybe – tell me about – mates?”

That’s when his father decides to join the conversation with, “I’d rather you didn’t, Prissy. Stiles is far too young for that.”

Mrs. Allen’s eyebrows go up.

“Too young, John? Whatever do you mean?”

Oh, she is wicked, the old lady.

And clearly enjoying the troubled look on John’s face.

“I – I mean,” John says, then apparently remembers that he is a grown man and that he can’t possibly be too embarrassed to speak his mind because he takes a deep breath and says, “I mean, Stiles is too young to be thinking of – of _mating_ with anyone. He hasn’t even dated yet, for God’s sake.”

“Wait a second,” Stiles says because, yeah, okay, so _technically_ this is true, but his dad couldn’t possibly _know_ that and that he would just go ahead and _assume_ –

But Mrs. Allen is _tsk-tsk_ -ing and shaking her head.

“John, do you really believe all the gossip about sparks?”

“Gossip?”

“It’s hearsay, John,” Mrs. Allen says and it sounds like she’s scolding him.

“That a mate is a partner in a _sexual_ way.”

Okay, time to leave the room.

Stiles is not staying to listen to an ancient woman talking about _sex_.

At the same time, he _needs_ to hear what she has to say.

Who else would _know_?

“It – isn’t?” John says with a puzzled look on his face. “B-but – _werewolves_ –“

“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Allen says impatiently, “I know. It’s because most people choose to think in these fixed categories – and werewolves can be very – possessive. The only mates they would ever take are their partners – often for life. But it’s a myth that the relationship of mates is a sexual one. Alexandra was my best friend. She had nothing to do with the men I chose as partners later in life, when I was – yes, John, older and more mature. Or,” she adds with a mischievous smile in Stiles’ direction, “with any of the women, for that matter. _Ha_ -” and she’s swinging her short legs back and forth.

“Good times.”

 

 

When Stiles is driving to school half an hour later he still feels like none of this computes.

Okay, so mating doesn’t have to be sexual. It can just mean being closely connected.

Alright.

But – Derek sure seems to think it’s sexual – or, doesn’t he?

Maybe he simply dislikes Stiles so much that he’d refuse being his anchor, even if that just meant being close to him.

Well, awesome.

Stiles is staring gloomily ahead.

It’s not even 8a.m. and he’s already had enough of this day.

But then again –

Stiles’ eyes go wide when he remembers – and the thing that is sitting in the passenger seat – it’s really cute, light blue with white specks and furry – it’s looking at him in surprise, like it wants to know what he’s thinking, but Stiles, he can’t _say_ it aloud.

To _think_ it is embarrassing enough.

Stiles should have asked Mrs. Allen if Alexandra Duffle was an alpha.

Maybe regular mating can be platonic – what if an alpha-spark-relationship is just different?

Because the boner Derek’s hug gave him yesterday – that was undeniably sexual and he’s pretty sure Derek felt it.

Oh, God.

Well, thank you very much, Stiles really needed that memory to stick with him throughout the day like an old, grey, gooey piece of chewing gum.

Just add onto the load of embarrassing stuff he did that’s already crushing him.

When he pulls into the parking lot, he can see Scott standing there, waiting for him and he’s truly thankful it’s not Derek. He’s pretty sure he can’t face Derek today.

Or, you know.

Ever again.

 

 

“Thanks for bringing my stuff back, buddy – my bag and the Jeep. Dad said you drove it home last night.”

“Allison drove it. I was just the one who delivered the keys,” Scott says. Then, before Stiles even knows what’s happening, Scott is giving him a hug. His messy curls rub into Stiles’ cheek and neck.

“Man, I’m so friggin’ glad you’re alright.”

“Mh,” Stiles says when Scott steps back.

“I’m glad I didn’t kill all of you.”

With a small smile.

You see, it’s funny because it’s true.

Scott beams at him and the horse on his hideous ocher-colored sweater looks like it has a fat grin on its woolen face, too.

“So does that mean – that you did it?”

“Did what?”

“You controlled your-,” and Scott lowers his voice to a barely audible whisper, “your _spark_.”

“Er…,” and Stiles rubs his head, doesn’t really know what to say to that, how to explain what he did – or, what he did _not_ do, “…kinda, I guess. Yeah.”

“Buddy, that’s – that’s _awesome_.”

“I – don’t know,” Stiles says back, embarrassed, “It was – necessary. I’m – just glad it worked. Er… we should get going.”

“ _Wait_!”

Stiles blinks at him.

“Er – before we walk over there – the school looks – bad. Inside, I mean. They’re fixing it and it’s not dangerous to be in the building, but – just so you’re not – shocked.”

Stiles’ heart sinks.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Also,” Scott says and he has grabbed Stiles’ sweater, is signaling for him to wait, to listen to one more thing.

“People are – upset.”

“… I know.”

Stiles thought so.

“No, I mean – like, _really_ – upset. What happened here – it was all over Panic Radio yesterday.”

 “Over – what?”

“Panic Radio. Beacon Hills radio channel.”

“And it only broadcasts when something shocking happens?”

Scott frowns at him.

“No. Why?”

“I meant-”

“They actually have a pretty mean Sunday morning hip hop hour, right after ‘Good morning, dwarf.’”

“…never mind.”

“Okay, so what – what you – _did_ – yesterday – it wasn’t just this school or neighborhood. People all over Beacon Hills felt it. There were even reports from faraway places in Beacon County, you know, like animals behaving strangely and stuff. They reported the wildest theories all day yesterday and-”

“….and?”

“And people aren’t stupid, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t help it, he has to raise his eyebrows at that.

“Well – I beg to differ. I mean, have you _seen_ Jackson?”

“No, listen. The theory that a spark awoke and that’s what caused all this came up several times and – you know, Freddie Galotti – er, that dude from Panic Radio – dug up all these reports from other awakenings that sound strangely similar, I mean, we all heard those before, but people just jumped at it, everyone loves these stories. He even got Dr. Deaton on the phone for like a minute to get a statement from him. Deaton wouldn’t say anything of course, but – it’s bad, Stiles. You have to be really careful.”

Stiles swallows.

“If they find out – what – what happens then?”

Scott gets this helpless look on his face that makes Stiles’ stomach flip uncomfortably.

“I don’t know, man. But one thing is for sure. When that happens – _everything_ is going to change.”

 

 

 

Scott didn’t exaggerate.

The school looks bad. The library had already been a mess, but Stiles hadn’t really paid attention then, had just meant to get away as fast as possible.

Now though.

When he follows Scott inside, his eyes widen in shock. It looks like – well, not as if a bomb had gone off, not like Friday but – it’s a complete mess. Windows burst, doors unhinged, the floors are covered in plaster that peeled from walls and ceilings, and the PVC underneath looks oddly – melted. It’s not even anymore, but looks like it simply liquefied, wobbled around a bit, then froze again, completely gone in some places and in others, little mountains of plastic. Just – odd, and judging from the unhappy looks on the faces of the workers, not easy to clean up either. They’re probably going to have to take it off completely and re-do all the floors.

Meanwhile, students and teachers are tiptoeing around the debris, their big eyes going left and right and they’re telling each other in hushed voices what happened yesterday, what it is that they saw and felt, as if each and every single one of them didn’t already know that.

And – _he_ did this.

He, Stiles, was the one who fucking did this.

Yes, Parrish said he didn’t physically _hurt_ anyone – but – then, why on Earth does this place look so –

“Pretty bad, huh?”

“Good morning, Erica,” Scott says to her. He gives her a nod – then simply walks around her. That is, he tries to, but Erica swiftly steps in his way, lets her hand melt into a claw and pushes it into Scott’s chest to stop him.

“ _Not_ so fast, McCall.”

Scott gives her an exasperated look.

“I don’t have time for this now, Erica.”

“You’re going to take the fucking time,” Erica hisses and she’s staring Scott down angrily, her eyes neon yellow, her voice all changed. Her black heels make her even taller, and the soft, wavy curls of her hair are in stark contrast to her hard features because, yeah, she’s pissed.

Stiles can’t help it, he still shrinks from a werewolf’s display of power, even when it’s a regular beta like Erica, but Scott of course is not impressed.

“What is it, Erica?” He just sounds tired.

“You fucking _dare_ to refuse our Alpha – _the_ Alpha,” she whispers, “then at least show that you have the balls to deal with the consequences.”

“…fine,” Scott says and Stiles can basically hear him roll his eyes.

“I know that Derek went to see you this morning.”

“What?” Stiles says, puzzled, at the same moment that Scott sighs, “Yeah and my answer is still no.”

“How – dare you-”

But Scott has turned around, away from her, he’s looking back at Stiles and says, “Let’s go, Stiles.”

Scott simply swipes away her hand without even wolfing out, waits for Stiles to step past her. For a split second there, Stiles expects her to freak out on them because, boy, she sure looks angry as hell.

But she doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at Scott, her blood-red lips pulled into a thin line.

“Derek went to see you?” Stiles says as soon as they’re out of earshot.

Scott just shrugs.

“Yeah, well – I guess you can say that. You could also say that he just sat at the kitchen table, red eyes and all, and scared the living crap out my mum when she got up for her morning shift.”

Stiles stops in front of the classroom and turns to him.

“He did _what_?”

Another shrug.

“He thought I’m simply too immature to know what I want. So he went ahead and asked my mum. She’d have to agree to it first, anyway. ‘cause I’m a minor.”

“And he didn’t call ahead. Or, like – rang the doorbell-”

“Nope.”

“Yeah. That does sound like Derek.”

Scott gives him one of his oddly-timed smiles, like Stiles said something funny.

Stiles decides to ignore it.

“And – you said no? Again?”

“Fucking right.”

“…Scott – I know it’s – not my call, but-”

“I can’t do that to her, okay? My mum gave up her whole life to come here with me – and I’m not going to change everything again just because I want a part of Derek’s power.”

Stiles doesn’t really know what to say to that. Scott has a point.

“Also, I couldn’t care less. Belonging to the Alpha is nothing but trouble. And for what – so I can tell myself I’m something special?”

He snorts out a derisive laugh that Stiles wouldn’t have thought him capable of.

“No, honestly, thank you and get the fuck out of my house. And that’s exactly what I told him.”

Well, that explains that.

No wonder Erica is pissed.

It’s the Alpha’s pack’s superpower. Derek is pissed, so Erica and Isaac are, too.

Stiles sighs and follows Scott inside.

No, Scott really has a point. It does sound exhausting to belong with Derek’s pack, to jump whenever he says so and hate whoever he hates.

Still.

To reject something that every beta in town would want like it’s nothing.

Stiles can’t help it, he respects Scott for it.

Hell, okay, yeah.

He really admires him.

 

 

 

 

Who knew that walking into a classroom could be this – strange?

Okay, most people in here aren’t really aware that Stiles even exists.

But then, there is Lydia Martin. And Allison Argent.

They stare him directly in the eyes when he shuffles into the room behind Scott.

Lydia is lounging in her chair like a queen on her throne and Allison is leaning against her desk. What is odd is that it doesn’t seem like they’d been talking with each other.

Rather like they’d been waiting for Scott and Stiles to walk in, a conspiratorial silence between them.

A moment later, Stiles gets why.

The rest of the class aren’t talking either, they have grouped around a desk and when Stiles walks up to where he and Scott are usually sitting – decidedly averting his gaze from Lydia and Allison – he can see that it’s Danny Mahealani’s table.

Danny brought a radio.

It’s sitting there in front of him on his desk, a black battery-powered box that looks like it just time-travelled here from 1976, with a long antenna and a man’s voice coming out of it and whenever it dissolves into incomprehensible static noise, Danny turns a button, gets the man’s words back to the classroom, loud and clear.

Everyone is listening intently.

_“…no way! So, that was Gina Daubenhauer from Winston, South Carolina calling. Thank you Gina, and – isn’t that fascinating, Jessy? I hope our listeners picked that up, but in case they didn’t, I’m gonna go ahead and repeat what Gina just told us. Gina has an aunt who was in the Ashanti region – that’s in Africa folks – in Ghana, thank you, Jessy – in 1972 when a pressure wave hit – and it swiped seven towns off the map! Seven. That was when Atiyah Adwoa Nyarko awoke. And her name, of course, we all know – isn’t that right, Jessy?”_

Then a woman’s voice – Jessy, presumably – answers.

“ _That’s right, Freddie, who in the supernatural world doesn’t know her name? She’s one of the fifteen sparks to awake in the twentieth century – and one of the nine to survive past the age of twenty._ ”

Stiles knows he must be pale because he just felt all the blood drain out of his face.

He needs to sit down.

So, that’s Panic Radio.

Apparently, Scott was right. Seems like they’re still broadcasting on the incident, concocting the wildest theories – okay, Stiles has to give it to him, they’re wild, but they’re also spot on – and listeners aren’t bored with hearing them yet and, from the looks on people’s faces here in the classroom alone, they won’t be for some time.

Lydia and Allison have gone back to looking at each other grimly, Scott has opened his comic book and is leaning back in his chair like nothing whatsoever is going on around them and then, of course, yeah.

Then, there’s Jackson.

He’s in his chair next to Danny, and he must have snapped at the other students mere moments before Scott and Stiles walked in because while everyone is crowding around Danny’s desk, they seem careful not to bother Jackson.

Jackson is listening as well, but he doesn’t look intrigued. His face is as ashen as Stiles’ and when Freddie speaks again, he suddenly turns his head and looks him right in the eyes.

“ _Of course, the twenty-first-century is special, folks. We haven’t seen a spark awakening yet, even though we’re almost two decades in. That hasn’t happened since – gosh – not since the eight century! Of course we might be entering the Dark Ages again…”_

Stiles doesn’t know where to look. Jackson’s gaze is relentless and piercing.

He looks like he hasn’t slept at all last night.

 _“Nonsense, Freddie,_ ” Jessy presently interrupts her co-host, “ _For our young listeners, during the Dark Ages, only one spark awoke – one on the whole planet in what, according to our stories, must have been almost a whole millennium and – we all know who that was, right? We all know his name_.”

“ _We do_ ,” Freddie says back. “ _So, let us know what you think, folks. Are we on the brink of the Dark Ages again – or did we all witness a spark come to power yesterday – and live to tell the tale?_ ”

Jackson abruptly tears his eyes away from Stiles and then he is just staring ahead, gloomily, shoulders pulled up to his ears.

“ _I hope it’s the second, Freddie – how incredible would that be? We’re waiting to take your calls while Ronny is playing some smooth jazz for you. And then we’ll be back with Dr. Edith Hantler from Beacon Academy who specializes on the History of the Supernatural, or as Dr. Hantler calls it – ‘The Real Stuff.’ Stay tuned, folks. This is Jessy Bennett and Freddie Galotti and you’re listening to Panic Radio._ ”

“Turn that off.”

Ms. Hinako, their English teacher, just walked into the room. She lifts her books onto the table, then pulls her chair back and, as always, climbs on top.

She doesn’t look a day older than twelve and when Stiles asked Scott why that was, Scott just shrugged, and said that no one really knows.

And Stiles soon learned to never underestimate her because the woman is a fierce beta, even though she wears pink ribbons and bunny clips in her hair.

She is staring angrily at them now, arms akimbo.

“Mr. Mahealani, you should know better than make money off your classmates’ addiction to gossip.”

“With all due respect, Miss, but money is never better spent than on gossip. After all, we live in exciting times.”

He gives Ms. Hinako a wide grin – and his jacket pocket two taps and, of course, Stiles should have known. Danny didn’t just bring the radio. He probably billed the others for every five minutes of Freddie Galotti’s ramblings.

Classic Danny.

Ms. Hinako gives Danny one of her I-have-my-eye-on-you looks, then pushes her chair over to the blackboard, writes out the words GOSSIP THEORY in large chalk letters.

“Since gossip is all you young people seem to have on your mind today, why don’t we start off with a little repetition. Gossip Theory – I want you all to write 300 words about the term. You have ten minutes to do so. Right now. And, yes, Mr. Schmidt – you will get grades for your answers.”

The whole class goes ‘ _What?_ ’ and ‘ _That’s unfair!_ ’

Stiles knows he read something about it before – and about the guy who coined the term, something like – Wizard.

The Whizz?

No, that can’t be it. Maybe –

But he can’t focus. All he can think of is the radio broadcast.

It seems like they’re on to him – they’re all on to him and it’s only a matter of time.

Unless – unless he can, somehow, soften the outbursts of his spark – not control it, because he’s already smarter than that, yes, knows it would never work, but – direct it, somehow.

Channel it and better than he did yesterday, even without an Alpha-mate. Without Derek as his anchor.

The spark, Stiles’ true self, it’s sleeping in him peacefully right now and maybe – for all he knows it might stay like this for days, or even weeks.

Who knows what will happen, right?

 

 

“Man, Hinako is _brutal_ ,” Scott says an hour later. Stiles is waiting for Scott to get his history textbook, then they walk over to Stiles’ locker.

“I swear I studied like crazy for that last test three weeks ago, but all I could remember now was – something about – Abraham Lincoln?” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “So I just made something up and pretended to know what the hell I’m talking about. God… I’m never gonna make it through this year.”

Stiles gives his friend an encouraging smile.

“Aw, come on, Scott. You can always- what the – _hell_?!”

Stiles opened his locker and – _something_ – attacked him.

That is – _something_ came tumbling out and right into his face as soon as Stiles pulled the door open – almost as if it had been leaning against it – and Stiles is holding it in his hands now, his heart beating fast.

It’s flat and light purple, about the size of a book, but not as heavy.

A cardboard box.

What the hell?

A white ribbon is wrapped around it, tied into a perfect bow on top.

“That’s a box of chocolates,” Scott says with a curious look at it.

“I can see that,” Stiles says back. “But – what the….”

“Is that Godiva?”

Allison has walked up to them. She has taken the box from Stiles’ hands.

“Wow, Stiles, you have a secret admirer,” she says with a smile. “And these are really expensive.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Makes perfect sense. Does it say who it’s from?”

That’s Scott and he has a wide grin on his face now.

Stiles has no idea what’s going on.

This must be a joke.

Someone is making fun of him.

“No, there’s no tag,” Allison says back. She is inspecting the bow.

Then she holds the box out to Stiles.

“Here.”

“Do you know-”

“No, Scott,” Stiles cuts him off. “Not the faintest clue. It’s probably a mean joke. You know – worms inside – or maggots…”

Which – has happened before, okay?

So, better be on your guard.

“I doubt that,” Allison says with a smile. “Open it. I bet it’s filled with the best chocolate you ever ate. By the way Scott – that’s what I’m expecting for our next date.”

When Scott’s face falls she laughs at him and starts mocking him cruelly and Scott is grinning back at her and Stiles knows that’s his cue to walk away. They’ll probably be sucking each other’s faces off in a minute or so.

He’s staring at the box in his hands.

Gives it a shake and, yes, it really sounds like chocolate.

Smells like chocolate, too.

Okay, it’s definitely a gift – but not something Stiles would get, okay?

He’s the type who gets kicks on a daily basis, not chocolates, and the only people bothering to break into his locker?

Bullies, exactly.

People who’d mess with his stuff – who’d want to see him hurt and scared.

But this?

Stiles frowns down at the white bow and that’s when he can feel the world _tilt_.

It’s just the fraction of a second – but it’s there, oh, he can feel it – _beginning_.

“Uh, sorry,” he mutters because he just ran into someone.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

That voice.

Right.

He remembers where he is and that voice, it belongs to –

“Hi, Corey.”

He gives the wendigo a faint smile and Corey, pale as ever beneath raven strands of hair, smiles back.

“You’re – not feeling well, are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Then Corey is just looking at him with this expression on his face like there’s so much he wants to say – but he knows that he can’t right now. Not here, not now.

And Stiles is kind of glad about that.

He’s feeling weird.

Which is not a good sign.

“I gotta go,” he mumbles, “history…”

“I – was wondering,” Corey quickly says, but when Stiles stops and looks at him, he blushes deeply.

“I – I was just – I just wanted to – ask… if you-”

Stiles is waiting patiently for him to finish. Somehow, Corey can’t look him in the eyes. He is kneading his hands and staring down at the gift in Stiles’ hands.

“I just – wanted to ask,” he finally whispers, “if – you’d like to grab a coffee with me. After school. T-today I mean. I – I don’t have a car, but I just – I…”

But then his shoulders slouch, almost like he suddenly lost the last shred of courage, and, a deeper shade of red around his cheeks, “N-never mind…”

He wants to duck away and flee the scene in mortification, but Stiles pulls him back by his sweater – careful to only touch the fabric, not his arm – and, without giving it another thought, says, “Alright. I can drive. 3:10 in the parking lot?”

Corey looks up at him with surprise.

“O-okay.”

A happy smile makes its way to the surface.

“Th-thanks.”

“See you then, Corey.”

Stiles smiles to himself, shaking his head when Corey hurries away, practically bouncing with joy.

Corey seems like a nice-enough kid – and Stiles knows that he doesn’t have any friends. That Jackson keeps bullying him, too.

Plus, Stiles still has to make up for being mean to him – for being, basically, a racist, and avoiding him simply because he’s a wendiigo.

For actually calling him a –

“Like dating freaks?,” someone says and Stiles doesn’t even have to turn his head to know who is leaning there, against the lockers, hands in the pockets of his jeans and a condescending smile on his face.

Apparently, Jackson remembered being an asshole just in time to insult Stiles on his way to the history classroom – but when Stiles actually looks at him, he can see him – flinch.

It’s just the tiniest, most involuntary movement – but it gives Stiles immense satisfaction because, yeah, okay, he can be a little shit, but, sue him, Jackson’s a fucking bully and to see him blush self-consciously because, deep down?

Deep down, he is _frozen_ , and seeing the truth in Jackson’s eyes is actually one of the better things that happened today.

Jackson is staring at the box in Stiles’ hands, then flicks his eyes up to his face again. Then they’re just looking at each other and, yeah.

Jackson is changed.

Stiles can tell it’s true, and not only because Beacon Hills High’s biggest bully never followed that line up with a second insult.

He also knows from the way Jackson is still ashen around the nose, from the way he is pressing his lips together now like he wants to say something, but he knows he really shouldn’t, that it would be safer not to.

You know – not to mess with Stiles.

They’re looking at each other in the hallway, students walking past them, and Stiles knows that Jackson is seeing him clearly.

He _knows_ who Stiles is – _what_ he is, and the expression on his face?

Impossible to read.

Then, suddenly, the words he’s apparently been holding back burst out of him, just stumble out of his mouth and, somehow, Jackson manages to make them sound angry even though Stiles can tell that he’s agitated – that he’s _scared_.

Of _him_.

“You shouldn’t meddle with windiigos, Stilinski. They’re bad news.”

Then he turns around abruptly and walks away, looking as uptight as ever, and Stiles –

Is confused, yeah.

But then he remembers Corey’s shy look at the box of chocolates and it suddenly makes sense and – oh, boy.

Corey didn’t – he didn’t just ask Stiles for a _date_ – did he?

Oh, God.

Jackson sure thinks so – and that the gift is from Corey and – maybe it is.

Oh, no.

He’d meant to hang out with Corey – as buddies, right?

Maybe he misunderstood him. Completely.

That would explain a lot.

 

 

 

When Stiles walks out to the parking lot that afternoon, he feels uncomfortable, and it’s not just because of Corey – and because of what Stiles apparently got himself into again.

It’s also because he’s feeling dizzy and because that tilting feeling, like the whole world around him flips?

It has happened three times now – _twice_ within the last hour, and the little furry creatures, they’re not the only things he’s seeing anymore. There’s other shapes, darker ones, larger ones, hiding just beneath this reality, right under the surface of it all, and they’ll be calling out to him soon enough.

Wanting him to listen.

Gesturing for him to _come_.

And he’s so fucking scared.

Just because he handled it yesterday doesn’t mean he’ll be able to again.

In fact, _now_ would be the time.

He’d have to do it now, give in, seek them out, the voices, and that ancient tune, but – he’s not ready. All of this, okay?

It just happened, not even twenty-four hours ago and Stiles – he isn’t ready for it to happen again.

Maybe he can convince Corey to meet him another day and then take a drive far away from here, and fast. Re-locate the epicenter.

But then he’s in the parking lot, and he knows he’s stumbling, almost face-plants onto the gravel, but it’s fine, he’s okay, he’ll hold up – _fuck_.

How can this escalate so quickly every time?

Corey is beaming at him – he’s waiting by his Jeep and he looks excited, but when he spots Stiles, his eyes go wide, and Stiles can practically _hear_ the word looping in his head, and, yeah, Corey knows what Stiles is, too, he’s thinking it right now, an endless row of,

_spark spark spark spark spark spark…_

Suddenly, Stiles just wants to be alone.

“Stiles – are you-”

_“Don’t touch him.”_

Oh, of course.

Stiles was wondering _when_ he’d show up, but, you know what?

He’s actually glad.

He’s glad, it’s Derek.

Derek will know what to do.

“A-alpha,” Corey whispers, awed, and he immediately draws his hands back.

“ _Turn around and walk back inside_ ,” Derek commands with a low snarl.

“B-but-”

Faint protest, but of course it’s no use. Derek doesn’t even have to flash his red eyes at him.

“Not a word to anyone. _Now_.”

Corey turns around and then he’s gone, hurrying back and Stiles feels sorry. Okay, yeah, he wasn’t too eager for this whole thing to happen in the first place, but –

“Would it have killed you to be a little nicer?”

Derek looks him up and down.

“You’re in no position to criticize me,” he says.

Stiles avoids his gaze. Derek is wearing a lot of black as usual, no leather jacket today, but a tight-fitted, very expensive looking dark sweater, his trademark scruff.

Oh, and did he mention Derek’s general drop-dead gorgeous _everything_?

How the hell can a guy be that powerful and insanely attractive at the same time? Another thing that doesn’t compute.

Stiles bids his heart to, please, _not_ beat out of his chest for once and embarrass him even further – ha, as if that would even matter.

When you accidentally pressed your boner into the Alpha’s thigh while he _hugged_ you and saved the goddamn day (aka ‘everyone’s lives’) – should you really be worried about not coming across like a complete fool?

Because that particular ship has left the harbor.

“Get in, Stiles,” Derek says with a sigh.

“In?”

Derek doesn’t answer, but unlocks a white Volvo that’s parked right next to his blue Jeep.

“What – that’s not your car.”

“It’s Erica’s.”

And because Stiles is giving him a puzzled look, “Do you think I’d take my own car after what happened at school yesterday? People would be jumping onto the hood before I can even pull into the parking lot – and I can’t do that to my baby.” He gives Stiles a sly grin.

Stiles’ frowns at him.

Is the Alpha – is Derek Hale actually joking?

“Now get in already.”

He does and Derek doesn’t waste any time.

Of course, he is a fast driver. Impatient.

Stiles knew that before – guessed it – but actually being in the car with him is kind of – giving him a heart attack.

Derek stops at every single red light at the very last second.

“ _Holy_ \----sh---,” Stiles exclaims when Derek almost runs over an elderly lady who’s crossing the street with her grocery bags.

“Didn’t think I could floor the break like that?,” Derek says with a smirk.

Stiles is staring at him open-mouthed until he turns his head.

“Don’t – _ever_ – do that again. Please. Or I’ll vomit all over Erica’s,” he scrunches up his nose, “er, pink – _fluffy_ – seat covers.”

“Hey, just because you’re driving a sorry piece of junk that almost falls apart when you hit fifty, doesn’t mean other people can’t have a little fun.”

“You’re a horrible, _horrible_ driver. Nightmarish.”

Derek’s shoulders move.

He’s actually laughing at Stiles.

“Wow, talk about a mood swing,” Stiles mutters.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing.”

Derek speeds down Main Street, then takes a right.

“Sorry to make you miss your date,” he suddenly says, smile vanished from his face again.

Stiles frowns at that.

He heard him alright, but is wondering what Derek _really_ means to say.

“Didn’t know you knew what an apology was.”

Oh, okay.

He should not have said that.

Now Derek has this sour look on his face again, dark and – pissed.

“What now?”

“We’re stopping.”

“Yeah, I get that. So you’re taking me to – an abandoned gas station in order to what was that? ‘Talk it over with me’? That’s not creepy at all. Still a high school kid.”

Derek shoots him a gloomy look.

“You don’t have to remind me, I’m well aware of your age. Now get out.”

“O-kay…”

When he shuts the door and blinks the rain away – it started pouring a minute ago – Stiles can see where Derek is going, and of course, that’s why they’re here.

It’s Derek’s car, the black Camaro and its lights flash red and yellow through the dense curtain of rain when Derek moves his thumb over the key.

“Tsss… did you really think I’d take a road trip in Erica’s piece-of-shit Volvo?”

He pulls the driver’s door open.

“Road trip? You’re taking a road trip?”

“We both are,” Derek says. “Now hurry, or you’ll get wet.”

And then, because he couldn’t possibly let something as considerate as that just sitting there, between them, “I can’t have you dripping all over the seats. They’re leather.”

Sure.

Stiles stomps over to the passenger side. He’s growing more and more annoyed by the minute. Yeah, he got it, he’s the high school kid and Derek is the grown-up, and the freaking king of this town, but Stiles is sick of this guy telling him around, with his handsome face and his stupid, buff body and – just _stop_ looking at him, Stiles.

Drooling all over the man doesn’t really help your case.

Derek doesn’t get to be pissed at you all the time, _you’re_ pissed at him now, and you should be.

“You do realize that you’re kind of abducting me?”

Derek buckles up, puts his hands on the wheel and the Camaro comes to live, purring smoothly like an aluminum cat.

Stiles suddenly has this odd image in his mind, of a trashy 1980s movie poster, Derek Hale in front of a car, but not his Camaro, either, that black Trans Am from the Knight Rider series.

“I’m aware that I’m gonna be in a hell of a lot of trouble tomorrow, yes.”

His eyes flick to the left and right.

Then he pulls out onto the street, floors the gas pedal.

The fucking show-off.

“But right now, my only concern is to keep everyone safe. And if that means breaking a few rules-”

“Or laws,” Stiles says dryly.

“-then so be it.”

“Wha- you’re kidding, right? So it’s just ‘ _Get in there, Stiles_ ’ and ‘ _If I’m kidnapping a minor, so be it’_ without even _bothering_ to ask if I’m okay with this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not kidnapping you.”

With a small smile creeping onto his lips, “But if I did, doesn’t kidnapping sort of already imply that I don’t have to ask your permission?”

“That’s _not_ funny.”

“Fine,” Derek barks and suddenly he’s practically yelling at him and Stiles sinks back in his seat, defeated, the cheeky attitude gone.

“I came to _talk_ because it’s my _responsibility_ to, and I just took one fucking look at you and I knew – Stiles, okay? You’re on the edge. I can fucking see that.”

He’s gripping the wheel tightly, angrily.

“Hell, I can fucking smell it on you.”

Stiles is staring down at the footwell. Takes a few seconds to find the courage to speak.

“Where-”

“Away,” Derek snaps. Then, his voice a little softer, “You – you did a good job yesterday, okay? And I should have been there, but I wasn’t because I thought – I thought the _bite_ would be – that it would be enough, but – that was stupid of me and it can’t happen again. You have to understand me. I need to – I _want_ to make sure that everyone is safe.”

Then turns his head to look at Stiles for a moment.

“Don’t you want for everyone to be safe? Your dad? Scott?”

Flicks his eyes back to the road.

They’re passing the town sign, and Derek is speeding away from Beacon Hills, away, free, finally.

Driving on in silence for a long time.

“….I want to go home.”

“You can’t.” And then, “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

 

 

 

 

Stiles feels like crying.

They’ve been driving for two hours, only stopped for a short bathroom break and to get something to eat for Stiles, but then he couldn’t get it down, not even a piece of chocolate.

He’s nauseous.

And, oh.

His head is swimming and he can’t feel his fingers anymore.

He’s in trouble.

 

 

 

“Stop,” he whispers after another ten minutes. He has no idea what exactly it is that Derek is waiting for – what he is looking for here, in the middle of nowhere. Maybe that’s the point.

To keep going, keep moving.

But Stiles can’t anymore. The engine is sounding aggressive, all of a sudden, hostile, and the car is growing too small for him.

It’s now – he has to act now – or it will be too late.

“Derek. _Stop_.”

“What – _now_?”

“I think – I’m going to be sick.”

Derek hits the breaks – not the smartest move when someone just told you they’re about to throw up – and pulls to the side of the road.

Because Stiles can’t get the door open, Derek jumps out of the car, rounds it swiftly, pulls it open for him.

Then Stiles spills out onto the grass and he’s crawling away from the car, not even caring how ridiculous he looks. He flops onto his back and breathes in and it’s there, thank God, has always been there for him, the tune and it’s so easy to just –

To just listen.

So he does.

 

 

It’s perfect like this, too.

The sky is indigo and deep and facing up, Stiles feels good. Comfortable, kind of.

For a moment there, he sees Derek’s face hovering over him, his eyes wide and full of worry and – gets that he was never alone with this. Ever.

Yesterday?

Scott had already been looking for him.

Stiles hadn’t known but when he gave in to his spark, Scott was already in front of the door. _Caring_.

Keeping him there, anchored, even though Stiles wasn’t aware of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles is walking empty lands.

Not under this sun, either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming back is hard this time, painful.

He slams back into reality with a massive panic attack.

“Stiles. _Stiles_ , calm down. _Calm down_.”

His chest is heaving and he almost jumps out of his seat, head darting left and right, not comprehending.

“You’re in my car, you – fucking _stay_ there, you can’t get out now, I’m driving eighty miles an hour! Jesus _Christ_.”

Then Stiles is just breathing, knees pulled up to his feet and his cat eyes find Derek.

They’re glowing purple in the darkness.

Derek looks genuinely afraid.

“ _Stay_ ,” he says, left hand on the wheel and his right hovering over Stiles’ knees, over his arms that are wrapped around them, as if he _wanted_ to touch him, but then – just doesn’t _dare_ to.

“Stiles. Stiles, can you hear me?”

But Stiles is not sure if he wants to – listen to him that is.

He screws his head to the right, slowly, away from Derek.

Ha.

So here he is again, back here in – what do they call it?

2016, and the night is tempting.

When he looks out the window, he can see himself spirit over the dark blue fields.

“Stiles.”

But Derek wouldn’t want him to – vanish from his car, you know.

So Stiles is satisfied with just sitting there and staring out into the darkness.

After a while, Derek stops saying his name.

Then his hand is on Stiles’ shoulder.

And they’re just driving on in silence.

 

 

 

They’re almost back in Beacon Hills again when Stiles fully comes to, finally.

The purple glow vanishes from behind his eyes – not into his body, never into his body, but it dissolves into the air around him as usual.

He takes a deep breath.

Then he bends down to the bag in his foot well.

Hoists it into his lap with a loud sigh.

He’s exhausted.

“Stiles,” Derek says for the first time in more than an hour. “Are you alright?”

Stiles doesn’t even think of answering him.

He’s a little overwhelmed.

Rummages through his bag without knowing what he is looking for. It just seemed like a logical thing to do, but now he’s not sure anymore what logic even is.

“Are you – crying? What’s the matter?”

Stiles’ right hand goes up to his face.

Fuck, Derek’s right.

Tears on his cheeks.

He knows why that is of course.

“What is it?” More urgent now.

Stiles can tell that Derek is on the edge of using his alpha voice on him, even though he knows it doesn’t really work on humans. Or on sparks, for that matter.

“ _What. Is it_?”

Angrily, yeah, because, with all of this Stiles scared the fucking hell out of him.

“It’s – it’s hard to describe,” Stiles finally says back, his voice raspy. He coughs.

Rubs his eyes.

Risks a glance at Derek who is staring out onto the road, one of his gloomy looks on that handsome face.

“Try me.”

“Mh… okay…” Rubs his eyes some more. “I – went – away.”

Stiles has to close his eyes to stay focused.

Just saying this makes him almost tune into the images in his head again, into this melody that is still there – that is _always_ there in the back of his mind.

Derek is patiently waiting for him to continue.

“I – think – where I went – I _know_ that place. I – it feels like _home_.”

He chokes up here a little, quickly turns his head away from Derek because, yeah, it’s almost too much.

“It’s just – it can be – overwhelming.”

Stiles falls silent and after a while Derek says – carefully, “Where – did you go?”

Stiles turns his head to look at him for a moment.

Then flicks his eyes back, out the window.

The night is never really black, you see?

It’s the darkest blue.

“When I give in to my spark… I can _hear_ – the beginning of time.” The words sound ridiculous. Don’t capture what he’s feeling at all. It’s not something that can be told anyway. It has to be _shown_.

Derek is staring ahead. Stiles can tell that he’s baffled.

Has to take a minute to process this.

“Not what you expected, mh?” Stiles says with a tired smile.

“How does it sound?” Derek just says back, an odd edge to his voice.

“How does it sound?” Stiles repeats, “It’s – I can’t describe it. A tune. It never goes away. It’s here right now – you just – you just… have to listen.” So tired. “And – and that’s not all. Today-”

He has to breathe before he says it, the words are so heavy,

“I could hear _beyond_.”

Silence.

A frown slowly coming on to Derek’s face in the darkness.

“ _Beyond_? What do you mean? Beyond what?”

Stiles takes another deep breath.

“Exactly.”

 

 

 

“My dad called sixteen times,” Stiles says with a look at his cellphone.

“Yeah. He called me, too.”

“ _Sixteen_ , Derek.”

“I left a message right before I picked you up and told him all about it. So he’d know you’d be safe.”

With a side-glance at Stiles.

“As safe as you could be anyway.”

“Derek, he’s going to be... oh, my God, he’s going to _freak_ _out_ at me…” Stiles is burying his face in his hands.

“You mean at me,” Derek says back matter-of-factly.

“That’s not making me feel any better.”

“And it’s not supposed to. It’s simply the truth.”

Another glance at Stiles.

“And what I did – it was necessary. He knows that.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Stiles snaps, “Because, you know what? For all he knows, I might have just handled – the situation. Like I did before - and just now for that matter. Because different from you my dad actually _trusts_ me.”

Silence.

Not necessary to mention that Stiles doesn’t fully trust himself these days.

When he lifts his bag to stuff his cellphone back, the box of chocolates drops into his lap.

“What’s that?”

“Dunno. Gift.”

He can see Derek eyeing the white bow in the darkness.

“From whom?”

“None of your business?”

They’re almost home now. Stiles recognizes the neighborhood. Five more minutes tops.

“…from that windiigo kid?”

“Corey?”

Stiles sighs.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Found it in my locker this morning.”

He stuffs the box back into his bag, throws the cellphone after it, then zips the whole thing shut.

“Probably a joke anyway.”

“….he likes you.”

“What?”

“That kid – Corey. The one you were going to take out this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t going to _take him out_. We were just going to – hang out for a bit. Or something. Not that that’s any of your business. And how do you even know?”

“What? That the kid has a major crush on you? I’m-”

“Don’t say ‘I’m the Alpha’ – because that line gets old really fast.”

Derek shrugs – and smirks.

“Maybe. Still true.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and then they’re there, in his street, and Derek’s pulling up to the house and there’s two squad cars parked out front.

And then his dad, okay?

He’s already storming out of the front door, yelling at Derek, not giving a fuck about what the neighbors are thinking and it’s a good thing that Derek has the presence of mind to tell him that he can shoot him, yes, but, please, let’s go inside first, not out here on the lawn, I’d hate to bleed out here on the lawn.

Stiles is still wondering whether his dad would even have the weapons to kill an alpha – to kill the Alpha – but it’s not like anyone is asking for his opinion, nope.

He’s being shoved inside and, somehow, while they’re still arguing about what’s best for him, for everyone, they still manage to pull him up the stairs, tell him to go to bed _right now_ and Parrish whispers that his dad was just worried sick, that he’s not handling the whole situation very well, but he’ll calm down, he’ll be fine and he won’t even sue Derek.

Not just because Derek’s the Alpha. But because he can’t let anyone know where Derek took Stiles today because that area, okay?

It’s swarming with journalists and rubberneckers right now, even though there’s literally _nothing_ to see but patterns in the grass, circles and loops.

It’s why Derek picked him up and carried him to the car five minutes after Stiles gave in to his spark.

As soon as Derek could breathe again and the powers would allow him to get back up from the ground.

Because he knew that the eyes of the whole supernatural world would be turned there soon and when that happened, Stiles needed to be far away.

When Stiles is turning to the wall in his bed that night, he’s still wearing his jeans and his dad is still yelling at Derek downstairs.

He covers his ears with his pillow and shuts his eyes.

Gives in to aluminum dreams.

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up after a short and troubled sleep to the pain on his back.

He sits up in bed before he’s even aware that he’s awake.

Clumsily reaches around his own body, trying to touch the spot.

Not working.

He flicks on the light on his nightstand.

Apparently, he wrestled out of his sweater and pants in his sleep because they’re tied into his blanket.

There’s blood on his pillow.

It isn’t much, but – it’s still odd.

He takes deep breath, wipes away the sweat from his forehead and climbs out of his bed. Turns on the lights.

Then he pulls his white shirt off – this one is kind of soaked in blood. At least, there’s this giant red patch on the back that his dad is going to freak out about when he sees it which –

Stiles can’t let that happen of course.

He turns around in front of the closet – a cheap Ikea thing, and one of the doors is a mirror – and Stiles is turning his head even though it hurts because his neck is a little stiff. He’s staring at his back.

Or at what he can see of his shoulder blades from this angle, but then, he doesn’t have to see much.

Or _anything_ , really, because even though he can’t remember, he already kind of _knew_ when he woke up.

Derek bit him again.

Deeper this time. He can tell that the Alpha was desperate when he did it.

Stiles can taste it in his mouth.

He’s frowning at his reflection in the mirror, wondering just how much things actually escalated today.

He throws the waving cat on his desk a dark look – the little cat figurine Mrs. Allen gave him to detect the magic leaking out of his body – because it’s still waving, waving, waving, admittedly, not as enthusiastically as it was days ago, but still, you know, a constant reminder to Stiles that he’s not done, not for a long time, that he’s only just starting to learn to live with his powers.

Then he turns the light off and shuffles back to his bed because it’s only four a.m.

When he reaches over to flick off the bedside lamp as well, his fingers brush the photo that had been leaning there, and that he already dislocated earlier when he got up.

Stiles stares at it for a whole minute, not comprehending.

Oh, he can see _what_ it is alright, _that’s_ not the problem.

He also knows how it got here.

What he doesn’t fucking get is _why_.

Why on earth did Derek give it back to him – and then put it here of all places? How come he even had it – was he carrying it around with him all day?

And does that mean he was up here, in Stiles’ room after Parrish switched off the lights, pulled the door shut behind him?

Stiles reaches out with trembling fingers and picks up the photo of Derek himself, the one that Danny gave to him, and in which Derek is so handsome, on a hot summer’s day years ago, in his black shirt, eyes staring at something in the distance like someone just said his name and he’s trying to figure out where the voice came from.

 

 

 

The next day, there’s another gift in Stiles’ locker.

It’s not a box of chocolates, but it has a white bow wrapped around it, just like the last one.

“Is that – what is that?” Allison says when Stiles pulls at the white bow and opens the little square box. It’s a simple black one, and for a second, Stiles thinks it’s empty.

Then realizes that it’s filled with black crepe, and, nestled into the wrapping paper, is a bundle of silk the same shade of black.

Stiles picks it up and stares at it. It’s soft and cool and smooth in his hand.

“It’s a tie,” Lydia says and her eyes narrow.

And she’s right.

Now that he’s holding it up to his face, he can see what it is and it’s –

“Not just any tie.” Lydia takes a step closer, staring down at the gift that’s sitting on Stiles’ palm.

“That’s the Black Label by Ralph Lauren, one of the most expensive ties in the world.”

“What?”

“It’s two hundred dollars.”

“Two hundred dollars doesn’t sound like the most expensive tie,” Scott says, but Lydia interrupts him with, “I didn’t say the _most_ expensive because obviously that’s the diamond-plated Stephano Ricci-”

“Obviously,” Scott says with a smirk and a shrug that makes the hobo-frog on his vomit-colored sweater look especially ugly.

“-but this one is definitely among the more expensive ones. Who gave it to you?” she hisses, almost as if Stiles stole it out of her closet.

“I – don’t know,” Stiles says back, a sheepish look on his face.

“It wasn’t Corey, that’s for sure,” Scott says which makes Stiles’ head snap up and his cheeks redden.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Scott shrugs.

“I didn’t want to say anything yesterday – I kind of – thought he was the one who got you those chocolates and – being a werewolf and all that I can tell when someone, you know – is having a major crush on my best buddy.”

He gives Stiles a crooked smile.

“The windiigo kid from Nine B? Dark hair, really pretty face?” Allison is saying slowly, a frown on her face.

Stiles gives her a nod.

He’s still staring at the tie as if he’s expecting it to come to life any moment and attack him.

“His mom cleans tables at Betty’s and Imp. I doubt he has the money to buy that expensive a gift, Stiles.”

Yeah.

Stiles kind of figured, even before he opened it.

This is a whole other level than a twenty-dollar box of candy.

“Maybe,” Allison is saying now, slowly, “maybe whoever gave it to you wanted to make sure you wouldn’t think it was from Corey.”

Then, finally, the regular morning havoc breaks loose around them, students stampeding through the hallways, over now clean floors, but not in panic.

In anticipation of a good fight.

“Derek’s here,” Stiles says and the others nod.

“About time,” Lydia says with pursed lips and a look down at her watch. “The Alpha is getting negligent. A no-show yesterday – and today, three minutes before the first period.”

They’re all turning away from the doors, and start moving in the direction of the stairs. Stiles is still holding the tie, not really sure what to do with it. He hesitates for a moment, then simply stuffs it back into the box and closes the lid carefully. But then he doesn’t put it away because that would mean accepting it – and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to.

It’s not just because it’s so ridiculously over-the-top. It’s also because the whole thing is starting feel less like a gift from a secret admirer and more like a bribe.

Almost like taking it would mean that there’s gonna be this person in his future who is going to walk up to his table and demand something in return.

“You know what I don’t get?” Allison is saying now, her voice startling Stiles out of his thoughts. She turns to look after Ms. Hinako who just stormed out the door, both hands thrown up in the air and her eyes glowing a sharp yellow, Stiles saw the color flit by him.

“What I don’t get is why they’re not simply waiting for him outside every day. I mean, like, why is everyone _pretending_ to go to class – and then acting all surprised when Derek shows up _every single friggin’ day_? Can anyone please explain the logic of that to me?”

Surprisingly, Scott is the one who answers.

“It’s easy,” and he’s smiling at her gently, “It’s all about the game, Allison. You of all people should understand.”

 

 

 

The little black box is sitting on Stiles’ desk right in front of him – which is not really helping him take his mind off of it.

What’s more, he caught Jackson staring at it twice already.

Okay, that’s a nice change from Jackson giving him, Stiles, this wide-eyed, blank look – Jackson’s odd new demeanor that people have started noticing, even Danny dropped a sly comment earlier, along the lines of Jackson finally getting soft – but Stiles would prefer for the old bully to simply leave him the fuck alone for the rest of the day.

“It’s a cardboard box,” Stiles says to him when he can’t take it any longer.

Their teacher just left the room and everyone is getting up to grab lunch.

He might even prefer nasty, snarky Jackson, to doe-eyed, scared-and-confused Jackson. At least the other douche Stiles knew how to handle.

Kinda.

“It’s a tie,” Jackson says, eyes narrowed. “A black label Ralph Lauren. Lydia said so.”

Stiles gives him an annoyed frown.

“Okay, if you already know, then why don’t you stop fucking staring at me like that? It’s really getting on my nerves.”

Jackson answers with a wide-eyed stare.

Oh, fucking awesome.

“Where you going so fast?” Scott says with an amused look at Stiles who jumped up and is throwing everything into his bag, even – and without really realizing – the black box.

“Outside, it’s so,” with a side-glance at Jackson, “so fucking _dull_ in here. I need air.”

“Then let’s grab lunch and go and sit outside on the bleachers. It’s cold, so everyone will be in the cafeteria.”

 

 

“I can’t believe Harris is actually leaving you alone, man,” Scott is saying between spoonfuls of soup. “Unbelievable. I mean – the guy’s a hyena and I really thought he’d be all over you today, but – I haven’t even seen him yet.”

Of course they wound up in the cafeteria anyway because Allison and Lydia insisted that it was far too cold to be sitting outside, and Stiles is nibbling away at his fries. Lydia is watching Scott devour his food with her nose scrunched up in disgust.

“That’s because Harris isn’t here, Scott,” she says. “I heard Mrs. MacAllister mention to Bonnie Finnick that he called in sick for the rest of the week.”

“Ha,” Scott says with a grin. He takes a big bite from his apple. “I wonder what Parrish and Derek said to him.”

“Yeah,” Allison gives him a dimpled smile. “I’d have loved to be a fly on that wall.”

Then she turns to Stiles and he knows she’s going to keep asking questions about – it.

About the story he told them all in a hushed voice, coding words like _spark_ and _power_ with meaningful looks.

Just as he expected, Allison starts with, “And Derek just – he just-”

Stiles knows what Allison means to say of course, so he says back, “Yeah.”

Yeah, Derek took him away.

And not just anywhere – when he stopped the car and Stiles spilled out onto the ground, right?

The things is this.

This ground – the field with the dry patches of grass on it, Stiles thought he’d never see it again.

Not so soon anyway, but, there it is alright, on everyone’s cellphones, being described by Freddie Galotti on the morning broadcast of Panic Radio.

And it’s literally in Stiles’ face right now, a blown-up image of it on a newspaper called The Beacon and that Jackson Whittemore is waving in front of his face.

The headline says, IS THIS THE NEW AGE?

And, below, in smaller lettering, ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS WAVE OF POWER SWEEPS OVER BEACON COUNTY, THIS TIME – which is continued in the text, but Stiles doesn’t bother to read it.

He knows what it says, anyway.

Not necessary to rub it in his face.

“I’m trying to eat, Jackson,” he says dryly while Allison snatches the paper out of his hands with an angry look on her face, as if wanting to say, ‘ _Why don’t you go ahead and announce it to the whole cafeteria, Jackson?!’_

“Move,” Jackson barks at the girl to Stiles’ left – a second-year who’d been throwing him side-glances that Stiles had been ignoring – and the girl shoots up from her seat, grabs her tray and scurries away, almost bumping into Erica on her way out who gets this murderous look on her face. Like the girl just bumped into fucking royalty and Erica is in the mood to have her beheaded for it.

“These fucking windiigos,” Jackson is saying now, corners of his lips pulling downward in displeasure. He’s watching the girl flee the cafeteria.

“You’re such an idiot, Jackson,” Allison says, rolling her eyes, but Stiles can’t help it, he’s turning to him with a wide-eyed stare.

“She’s a- she’s a windiigo?”

“Did you think all of them look like Count goddamn Dracula?”

Stiles doesn’t really know how to react to that – other than with guilt because, yeah. That’s exactly what he thought.

“These things disgust me,” Jackson is saying now. Then he nods at the newspaper.

“I’m just gonna ask you once, Stilinski.”

“ _Jackson_ ,” Lydia says, an edge to her voice as if warning him to shut the hell up.

She’d been reading her Twitter-feed, but now flicks her eyes up from her phone and glues them to Jackson’s face as if saying,

Not here, for God’s sake.

Not now.

“If – you,” Jackson starts, decidedly not looking at Lydia’s face “– you _know_ what – then – just – nod.”

Stiles frowns at him.

“Why would I do that?”

Oh, wrong answer, Stiles.

Jackson blows up in his face immediately.

“Because, Stilinski, you’re sitting at _my_ fucking table, okay? And I’m fucking _letting_ you.”

He’s almost shaking with all the words he has to hold in.

Then grits out, “The least you can do – is give me an honest answer.”

“Get lost, Jackson,” Scott says, coolly and when Lydia doesn’t protest, Jackson shoots up from the table.

“Fine. I was just trying to be fucking civil – but okay. Have it your fucking way.”

And he storms off.

Stiles can see heads turns, eyes follow him. Everyone knows Jackson, of course.

King Douche, Captain of the lacrosse team and Lydia Martin’s boyfriend.

On a good day, that is.

 

 

“ _That_ was civil?” Stiles says a minute later. They’re on their way to the Econ classroom.

“I told you,” Lydia says back, pursing her lips. “He has – issues.”

“Okay, but-”

Lydia suddenly turns to him.

“You scare him, Stiles. Monday – he – he still hasn’t recovered from it.”

“So?” Stiles says back coldly. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but your boyfriend’s a fucking bully.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend.”

“Hold on” Allison says. “What do you mean, he’s not your boyfriend?”

“…we broke up yesterday.”

 And then, slowly and pointedly casual, because it’s not easy, showing everyone that you’re so above it all when you can barely hold back your tears,

“He broke up with me.”

 

 

 

Still, this seems to be an okay-enough day.

When their chemistry teacher fails to show – Stiles isn’t even sure the guy exists although everyone keeps insisting that he does – and Scott and Allison withdraw to an empty classroom, probably to make out, Stiles wanders out to the bleachers by himself.

He’s feeling good.

Stable.

The air is cold and even though it’s past noon, it’s moist and heavy.

The sky is grey, but, really, Stiles likes it like this.

Scott was right.

Because it’s cold, everyone is staying inside the school. It’s just him out here.

Him and the new bite on his back – it’s itching, but it’s fine. It’s helping him focus.

Not the pain, but the memory of– yes, the _flesh_ memory of Derek’s touch on his skin.

The cold air is stinging in his lungs and he inhales deeply.

Finally the space to think.

He feels like he hasn’t had this in days even though he needed it so desperately.

But it’s alright now.

His hand reaches into his bag, resurfaces with the black cardboard box.

Fine, one problem after the other.

Number one: what is he supposed to do with _this_?

“Another gift?”

“Derek, _God_. Can you please not just appear out of nowhere? You just scared the crap out of me.”

“Bullshit.”

The Alpha leaps up to him in one smooth movement.

“You knew I’d be out here.”

“And how would I know that?”

“Because I always am.”

Stiles frowns at him.

Whatever that means.

Derek is handsome as ever. Leatherjacketed today, blue jeans.

“I’m actually surprised to see you – you know, alive and all that. Since my dad basically tore you new one yesterday.”

“Your dad was – _is_ – really angry at me.”

“And almost killed you last night. I can basically still hear him yelling at you. I never saw him this angry before. You should be fearing for your life.”

Derek smirks at him.

“Please. I took on fifty betas this morning. Single-handedly.”

“You were late.”

“How do you know?,” Derek says. He’s watching him. “You weren’t even there.”

Another frown from Stiles, but Derek, he doesn’t explain himself.

He never does.

His eyes are glued to the box Stiles is turning in his hands and before Stiles can protest, he has already taken it from him, and opened it.

“I – don’t know what to do with it,” Stiles mutters. “I don’t want it, but I can’t throw it away, either, right? Apparently, it was really expensive and-”

“It’s a courting gift,” Derek suddenly says. He’s staring down at the box in his hand.

Then lifts his gaze up to Stiles, slowly, this odd look on his face, like – bewilderment?

“Someone knows – what you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

Well, yes, Stiles did tell Scott, Allison and Lydia, and he confessed it all to his dad last weekend who – hadn’t really minded.

It was easy because the sheriff already kind of knew. They had all seen Stiles awaken after all.

He’s not sure how Derek would react though.

“Harris knows about me and – er-”

“Scott, I know. And his girlfriend, that brunette one – and the redhead, and the arrogant prick.”

Stiles bites back a laugh at Derek’s sober character sketch of Stiles’ odd friend group.

Because – they _are_ his friends, aren’t they? Even Lydia.

Okay – excluding Jackson of course who is certainly _not_ his friend.

“They won’t tell anyone.”

“I know,” Derek says. “And if I was worried they might, I’d have shut them up already.”

Stiles swallows, trying not to wonder how the Alpha usually _shuts people up_.

“Who gave this to you?”

He’s waving the box in his face, almost like Jackson did earlier, with the newspaper article.

“ _I – don’t – know_ ,” Stiles says. “If I _did_ , I wouldn’t have to _wonder_ about it, now, would I.”

Derek’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit.

Sure sign that he’s not amused at Stiles’ usual lack of respect.

“Can’t _you_ tell? I mean – with you being the Alpha and all…” Just the faintest hint of mockery to his words, but Derek either doesn’t hear – or doesn’t care.

He holds the box up to his nose.

Turns it in his hands, opens it.

Derek sniffing a tie is the oddest sight and Stiles can just barely bite back a laugh.

“This was expensive,” Derek concludes and Stiles grimaces.

“I know. I just told you that.”

But Derek keeps talking as if he’s not even hearing Stiles.

“This is not good. I wasn’t – I didn’t _expect_ for it to start so soon.”

 “Start so soon?” Stiles says back with a frown. “What is starting? I’m pretty stable today, if that’s what you mean.”

Derek just glares at him.

Then flicks his hazel eyes back to the gift in his hands.

He seems to hesitate for a moment – but only for a second before he stuffs it into the pocket of his leather jacket, box and all, not even caring about the fact that he’s flattening it, and to Stiles’ immediate and outraged protest, he simply responds,

“I thought you didn’t want it.”

“I don’t. But what happens with it is not your decision to make. This has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

Derek glowers at him darkly.

“It has _everything_ to do with me.”

Then, without waiting for Stiles to answer – or even _begin_ to understand – he jumps down the bleachers, lands soundlessly in the wet grass.

“What the hell?!”

“I need to tell my pack.”

“Tell them what?”

“Tell them – about _you_. We’ve got to find whoever gave this to you before-” A side-glance at Stiles, but he doesn’t finish.

And then he already vanished behind the bleachers and Stiles can’t even hear the leaves rustle, or branches crack, Derek is moving that fast.

Of course.

He’s the Alpha.

And he’s not headed in the direction of the school either. As convincing as the thought of Derek contacting Erica and Isaac via Twilight-style telepathy is – he’s probably doing something as anti-climactic as whatsApping them to meet him at the Jack-in-the-Box on Third Street.

The big bad wolf.

Stiles rises from the bleachers only to find that his legs are stiff and cold and his jeans wet.

Courting gift?

What does that even mean?

 

 

 

 

When Stiles gets home that day, his dad is already waiting with an early dinner, some kind of fish stew for himself and a vegetarian lasagna for Stiles.

“Holy wow, dad. I didn’t know you were such an amazing cook.”

His father runs his hand through his hair, a guilty look on his face.

“I’m not. Prissy dropped that off for you. She grew all the ingredients in her own garden.”

“Even the lasagna plates?”

“Stiles…”

“Alright, alright. Well, I should have known,” and he gives his father a cheeky grin.

“Sorry, son, I’m – kind of at a loss as to what to feed you these days. Since you won’t have any meat and no convenience store – well – _anything_ , really…”

“Just think of me as a high-brow vegetarian.”

“That’s not funny, Stiles.”

“Okay, but consider this. If it’s not funny – then why am I laughing?”

They look at each other for a moment, Stiles still smirking and his dad with an exasperated look on his face, starting to shake his head slowly.

“This is all very serious, even though,” his father swallows and moves in his chair uncomfortably, “even though, everyone keeps telling me how well you’re handling it and that I needn’t worry. Alan, Prissy and – Derek…”

“Mh,” Stiles gives back between mouthfuls of lasagna. He’s so hungry, he feels like he hasn’t eaten properly in days.

Which is kind of true.

“So… the two of us – we haven’t really had the time to discuss it yet: the Alpha took you on a road trip yesterday.”

“Mh.”

“Next time that happens, just make sure to drop me a line.”

“Mh.”

“ _Stiles_.”

“What do you want me to say, dad?”

Stiles swallows his lasagna and waves his fork at his father.

“How about – I’m sorry to have scared the hell out of you and to have – made you consider sending out an army of squad cars to look for me – Sir?”

“Don’t overdo it.”

“I’m serious, Stiles. Just because I yelled at Derek for an hour last night doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you.”

“What? You – got to be kidding me… How on earth is this my fault?”

“I don’t kid about safety, Stiles. I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m saying you don’t just climb into a stranger’s car just because it’s really fancy.”

“What? He’s not a stranger. He’s the fucking _Alpha_.”

“I don’t care if he’s the Queen of England. You’re grounded for the rest of the week. Now finish your lasagna.”

Stiles forks up the last pieces in silent anger.

When he slams his plate into the dishwasher a minute later, the sheriff lets out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry you’re mad at me, but – sometimes, I just have to be a dad.”

“Well, took you long enough…”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing.”

Stiles walks over to the table, picks up his bag.

“And…. Are we going to talk about it?”

Silence.

“Stiles.”

“Talk about what?!”

His dad runs his hand through his hair again, almost like he doesn’t really know how to say this – then goes ahead, says it anyway.

“…about the photo of Derek on your nightstand and the box of fancy chocolates on your desk.”

“No. You just lost the right to ask me _anything_ about that.”

And with that he storms off, leaves his dad just standing there, at the kitchen counter, looking helpless and a little lost.

Stiles is already out the door when he turns back and yells,

“And stay the hell out of my room!”

 

 

 

Then he’s just pacing back and forth in front of his desk, not in the mood to put on music or grab a book or sit at his laptop, and he wouldn’t even do his homework right now if you held a gun to his head.

Since he found out he’s a spark, Stiles hasn’t even stopped once and thought about how things could have been if his grandma hadn’t had a stroke, but right now, for the first time in a week, he just wishes he were back there, in his old room, with his old, petty, teenager problems.

With his grandma grounding him when he was twelve because she discovered an empty beer bottle under his bed – Stiles had really only meant to _try_ it, alright?

And he absolutely _hated_ it, then didn’t know what to do with the evidence, so he just shoved it under his bed and forgot all about it, and when his grandma found it, she didn’t ground him for taking a sip of alcohol, but for ruining the carpet.

_‘Because sometimes, sheer dumbness needs to be punished, Stiles. Before worse things happen.’_

But this?

This is absolutely ridiculous.

If anything, he, Stiles, is the victim in all of this.

This is – downright –

But then his phone starts buzzing.

It’s Scott.

“Hey, buddy, I just remembered that Coach invited the lacrosse team of Beacon Academy to practice with us tomorrow. To kinda check out their weaknesses, I suppose. That’s one of the universities in Beacon Hills – er, their team is really good. Like – incredibly good.”

“Okay?”

“I’m serious. They’re machines.”

“Yeah, Coach said that last week – so-”

“But last Thursday – _nothing_ – happened – yet.”

Stiles frowns at the waving cat on his desk.

Waving its paw at him, waving.

Waving.

“So… you’re saying…”

“I’m saying that there’s a lot of people in Beacon Hills who will take the opportunity to sniff around the school tomorrow. You know. Pretending to watch us practice, but really ogling the students. Freddie Galotti just struck up the hypothesis that there’s either a dragon at Beacon Hills High – or a spark.”

“Dragon? How could there be – okay, never mind. It’s gossip theory, I get it. So – you think I shouldn’t come to practice tomorrow?”

“Bullshit. I just think we need to be extra careful to – guard your secret. Ha, kinda feels badass saying that.”

Stiles can hear the grin in Scott’s voice.

“Oh, and - there’s something else.”

“Better than a hidden dragon?”

“I’m gonna say – _worse_. Allison just messaged me – er, starting tomorrow, her grandfather will be back at school again.”

“What? The principal?”

“That’s the one. Her dad just picked him up from the airport.”

A doom-laden silence ensues.

Stiles isn’t sure whether Scott is making fun of him or not.

“Er… and what exactly is so strange about that?”

“He told her he’s gonna be here _every single day_. He brought all his stuff back, too. Allison says she had to set up his cocktail bar in the dojo an hour ago.”

Stiles is frowning.

“But I already saw the guy. He’s always wearing these ridiculous-”

“That’s because he pops in about two or three times a year to bully everyone. But he hasn’t really _been_ here in years.”

 “So... he’s finally taking his job seriously?”

“You don’t understand, Stiles. Allison’s granddad is one of the best hunters in the world, and he’s – he’s old school.”

“Old school?”

“Allison says he was really bummed when Beacon Hills passed that everyone’s-equal-law twenty years ago. He’s still a true hunter. That dude, okay? He’s fascinated by anything magical and exotic and he’s usually out collecting supernatural artefacts and rare creatures. I’m serious, Stiles. Harris is like a teletubby compared to this guy.”

Oh.

Okay.

Stiles is starting to see what Scott is getting at.

He swallows, says, “And you think”-

“- I think he heard what’s happened here, then put two and two together and now he’s coming back. Gerard Argent is coming back to Beacon Hills.”


	6. All Things Considered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pt. 1 the secret admirer unveiled – interlude: a lesson in CIP (‘Completely Imaginary Physics’) – pt. 2 Stiles’ secret unveiled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you as always for your wonderful comments :o I'm so sorry I only just started answering them - I always read & consider them, I'm not sure I'd have any ideas without them - but I also really wanted to get this chapter done
> 
> man, I REALLY hope you'll like it & I didn't completely screw this pivotal scene up --- anyway, ENJOY (I er..hope?)

 

 

“I know what Fritz Zwicky said, but if you take a real good long look at it, dark matter is glowing purple.”

(F. Hopper Argent, professor emeritus of therianthropology at Beacon Academy, Beacon Hills, CA, USA, in a 1983 late night broadcast of Panic Radio)

 

 

 “… _beautiful and clear sky, and I bet a lot of people will be willing to venture out before dinner today and check out the encounter of Beacon Academy with Beacon Hills High, early this evening. It’s not an official game of the season, but I’m sure we’re still going to see a lot of action on the field. So, folks, if you’re in the mood for an hour or two of Anything Goes lacrosse, get yourself to Beacon Hills High School tonight! And now, back to our guest in the studio, Dr. Benny R. Singer who teaches Supernatural Knowledges at Beacon Academy and who’s here to talk the works and legacy of the great scientist, philosopher and storyteller F. Hopper Argent over with me. Professor Argent, who is most famous for saying, ‘No, you fools, you got it all wrong!’ has contributed enormously to the global research on sparks and is still fondly remembered for his tricky stories about wood ducks and Capuchin monkeys…_ ”

(Panic Radio morning broadcast, hosted by Freddie Galotti)

 

Stiles is chewing his cereal.

He is only half-heartedly listening to Freddie Galotti’s ramblings on Panic Radio that Thursday morning in Beacon Hills. Usually Stiles is amused at the wild theories and ridiculous ideas about sparks that people seem to cling to, no matter what scientists say – they can read thoughts, put frog legs in their potions, speak in tongues and love shiny objects – but right now he is tired and the only thing on his mind is how warm and comfy his bed was when he left it.

How easy it would be to tell his dad that he’s not feeling alright, that he’s dangerously close to the edge or something, and that he absolutely needs to stay home.

But, no.

Stiles stabs his spoon into the bowl with a dark look on his face.

His dad grounded him for the rest of the week and Stiles would rather run suicide laps right now than ask the old man for anything, no matter how often he tells him, ‘You can’t stay mad at me forever, son.’

Who said anything about forever?

But he sure as hell is going to give him the silent treatment until Friday at least. Sunday if his dad pulls some other crap. Like yell at him when he gets detention because he hasn’t done any homework in a week.

Because that might happen.

 

 

 

The school is almost completely cleaned up again this morning. The floors are gone – they’ll be walking on concrete for a couple of days – and there’s ‘Fresh Paint’-signs on the walls, but other than that Beacon Hills High has gone back to looking like every other high school.

Fine. _Almost_.

Almost because below the letters FRESH PAINT it says ‘Don’t lick!’ – and because there are a couple of weird greyish patches in some corners that say loud and clear that _someone_ just gave a shit about the warning.

Stiles is shuffling down the hallway, along the row of blue lockers.

He’s early today.

Scott isn’t here yet, neither is Allison or Lydia or Danny or anyone else he knows, just some brown-haired girl, a freshman or second-year, who’s at her locker next to his.

Derek probably won’t pull up to the school in his black Camaro for another half-hour to officially start the day with his usual show of Alpha power.

So it’s really weird that his pack is already here.

Stiles is pretty sure that the click-clack on the concrete, moving closer to him, closer, closer, echoing down the hallway, coming around the corner now – yup, that’s Erica.

Hot as always, long legs, black tights, black mini-skirt, blond hair and that trademark fuck-off look on her face, and next to her, curly-hair – that is, Isaac Lahey, Derek’s other beta. He’s in dark pants and a tight-fitted black t-shirt, his curls reflecting the sunlight that spills in through dirty windows, making them shimmer golden.

Stiles has to admit.

Not only does the Alpha pack contain three of the most handsome people Stiles has ever seen. Erica and Isaac also look really badass, the way they’re strutting down the corridors like they own them, Isaac with his hands in his pockets and Erica drawing her claw over the locker doors, as if to say, _‘Go ahead, mess with us! But you’re not gonna live to tell the tale.’_

Stiles is still wondering what they’re doing here so early – when he catches something strange out of the corner of his eye.

Turns his head the other way, away from Derek’s betas.

It’s the girl who’s in front of her locker next to him and Stiles – he could swear that she just _moved_ in an odd way.

But glancing at her now – her big brown curls covering the side of her face almost completely like a curtain with only her cute little nose, full lips, small chin and dark brown eyes sticking out – sends a shiver down his spine because not only is she _not_ moving.

She isn’t doing _anything at all_.

She’s just standing there, staring ahead with this blank look on her face. Just breathing.

Not through her nose either, but she’s taking in these long, deep breaths through slightly-parted lips, almost as if she’s _tasting_ the air.

And it’s slowly dawning on Stiles – how fucking _creepy_ that is when Erica and Isaac are suddenly right next to him, and Erica is barking _“Get lost!”_ at the girl and when she doesn’t react, her chest continuing to move up and down with every rattling intake of breath, Erica shoves her.

“Holy – _shit_!”

The girl turns and crashes into the lockers and Stiles jumps back in horror at her face. Those eyes, no longer big and brown but completely and brilliantly white now and her mouth a black hole with rows of sharp teeth around it like porcelain shards.

“These fucking windiigos,” Erica says panting.

The girl has collapsed on the floor, strands of brown hair over her face, but Stiles can still see it, that moment when the pupils return to her eyes like a black disk floating slowly to the surface of a milky pond, dragging a rim of color – brown irises – back up with it.

Stiles has to press his hand up to his mouth at the sight.

“Wh-what?” the girl says, staring up at Erica. Almost like she just awoke from a trance.

“I said – _get the fuck lost_!” Erica snarls and the girl, obviously terrified, her face fully human now, crawls away from her, then stumbles to her feet and dashes down the corridor.

“What just happened?” Stiles says, his hand still in his face, covering his mouth. His heart probably won’t calm down for a while either.

“Well. It’s _you_.”

Erica flicks her blond curls back over her shoulder, looks Stiles up and down.

“You are kinda cute. I _guess_.”

“What – are you even talking about?” Stiles says back, but Erica just tilts her head and purses her blood-red lips as if she’s thinking about how to rank Stiles on a scale of 10.

Isaac Lahey is no help either, he’s just staring at him with that unreadable expression on his handsome face.

“But after all – it’s not like she was drooling all over you or anything, so what do I know,” Erica presently sighs. She pulls her already deep cleavage further down with her index finger – blood red nail polish as always – and adds, “I guess it’s something about – their sense of smell. Like, Derek says it’s keener than a werewolf’s because they’re not as strong as we are and-”

“…depend on detecting their prey’s weaknesses to trap it, I know, I know,” Stiles says, throwing his arms in the air to make her stop talking.

The thing is, okay – don’t draw him a picture.

Because they’re in his mind already, every single one of them – every single photo he looked at in his biology textbook in the attempt to get used to them, about twenty different shifted wendigo-faces.

He read all about them, too, hoping that understanding might lessen his fear.

Long story short, it didn’t.

If anything, to know exactly _how_ wendiigos usually trap and kill their prey – detach the weakest member from the group and rip its heart out with that particular two-step move that only wendiigos can do, called _fanning_ and _cupping_ , because they aren’t strong enough to actually crack bones and have to open their thin, sharp claws like a _fan_ and thread them into their prey’s ribcage, every blade in-between two rips, and then _cup_ the heart up and push it downward and out through the diaphragm – _knowing_ this made it only worse because, yeah.

Now he doesn’t just have these images in his mind, but it’s like a little horror film up there.

So telling him that, oh, don’t worry, Stiles, wendiigos aren’t strong, and they’re not fast?

No use anymore.

Because Stiles knows they don’t fucking have to be. They’re _precise_ and that’s enough.

He didn’t do any of his homework, but he did read his textbooks. A werewolf’s power is their brute force while a wendiigo’s deadly strength is in their _technique_ and their crazy keen senses. They can smell over 2300 different types of blood. Most doctors at Beacon Hills hospital are wendiigos.

“You’re welcome,” Erica is saying now, folding her arms in front of her chest.

Isaac is silent.

Stiles frowns at her. His heart is still beating loudly in his chest – which the two betas can hear of course. He has no clue what Erica even wants from him.

So, with a last confused look at Isaac, Stiles turns away from them both and reaches out to open his locker with trembling fingers.

“Ah. Can’t let you do that,” Erica says.

“Mh? What do you mean you can’t-”

“Step aside.”

“What-”

“Do it,” Isaac Lahey says darkly.

“What’s the matter with you two?”

But Erica doesn’t answer. Instead she raises her fist and before Stiles can protest, she hits his locker twice, and hard, leaving a big dent in the aluminum. The locker springs open and, just as the day before, a gift tumbles out from the top-shelf and falls directly into Erica’s outstretched hands.

“A- _ha_ ,” she says, holding it up Stiles’ face. It’s a cylindrical object with another white bow fastened around it, but Stiles is staring at the warped locker door.

“You could have just – pulled at it, you know,” he grits out, “With your _hand_. Like people do when they want to get something open without completely _wrecking_ it.”

But Erica pays him no mind. She’s busy pulling at the bow to undo it. A moment later, the white silk tape flutters to the ground and the thing in Erica’s hands flaps open. It looks like a notebook. Erica inspects it for a few seconds, then holds it up between her thumb and index finger, like a piece of evidence in a murder trial and – it’s not a notebook.

It’s a magazine.

A fancy one, with glossy pages, high-resolution on heavy paper and the first thing Stiles sees is the incredibly buff and hot guy – topless guy, too – on the cover. His muscles are bulging beneath tan skin and he’s – sweaty? And smeared with something like black grease, or oil, and in all the right places. He looks like he just worked out and then fixed a bike or a truck. Or a tank.

His handsome features are human, but his eyes are glowing neon-yellow, even though – the color is absolutely crazy and can’t _not_ be photoshopped.

“Wereboy Magazine,” Stiles reads out the title that is sprawled across the cover in neon letters.

“Exactly. It’s confiscated.”

“What?” Okay, Stiles is slowly getting angry at these two clowns. “What gives you the right to-”

“Confiscated by order of the Alpha,” Erica says, then pivots on her heel, her big, blond curls whipping against the locker door and, not even caring that she’s stepping on the white bow, soiling it, she struts off.

“Order of the Alpha,” Isaac echoes with a nonchalant smirk and follows his partner in crime. Leaves Stiles just standing there all by himself.

“Order of the Alpha?” Stiles mutters to himself. Then, yelling after them, “That’s _not_ a thing! You hear me?”

 

 

 

And it doesn’t stop there.

Barely fifteen minutes later he spots Erica leaning against the wall near the big double-doors, holding the magazine demonstratively up in front of her face. Isaac is next to her and they’re sticking their heads together to look at the pictures. Erica is reading out lines with a loud voice while Isaac is snickering cruelly.

“12 Signs Your Beta Won’t – ‘ _Tie the Knot’_ Any Time Soon,” Erica announces to no one in particular and snorts, “What kind of trash is this?”

Stiles is shaking his head.

He knows what she’s doing of course and the only reason it didn’t hit him earlier is that his brain needs at least two hours and several cups of coffee to get going in the morning.

This is Derek’s doing.

Because he just arrived, in his Camaro outside the school and just like every morning, hordes of students are streaming out the big entrance doors – and they _all_ have to pass Erica on their way out.

Not that anyone would even really see Derek’s betas leaning there, right next to a FRESH PAINT – Don’t Lick!-sign and not giving a shit about it, in a hallway that’s presently swarming with students, but – the thing is this.

If you _happened_ to be a beta meaning to court a certain spark – no, meaning to be the _first_ beta to _ever_ court a certain spark, to secure him _before_ anyone else _even knows_ what he is –

and you’d see your precious gift, well, not in _Stiles’ hands_ where it belongs because Stiles, he’s just standing there, students passing left and right, both hands empty, then you’d look around, yes?

And it would take your werewolf-ears not even five seconds to pick up Erica’s voice, mocking the Foolproof Ways to Groom Your Eyebrows and Make That Yellow Pop and Sparkle!

Stiles can’t help it, it’s hard to wipe that grin off his face.

So that’s Derek’s brilliant plan to uncover the secret admirer?

Have Erica bully Stiles into handing the next gift over and then show whoever it is that Stiles didn’t get it?

That’s completely dumb.

Especially when there’s literally a thousand other ways – smarter ways, too – to get the same result.

Stiles would have fastened a camera somewhere near his locker and then watched the beta – because, obviously, his secret admirer is a beta werewolf because, come on, Wereboy Magazine? – and watched them sneak the gift into his locker while leaning back comfortably at his own desk.

Or, you know.

Get Danny Mahealani to hack into the school surveillance system, so he wouldn’t even have to set up a camera – because Stiles is pretty sure that Danny knows his stuff. How else could he have assembled his highly secret and exclusive – not to mention, _ridiculously_ over-priced – Derek-Hale-Shower-Series?

Not that Stiles _wants_ to know who it is because he’s doesn’t.

Obviously, he’s _not_ interested.

Seriously, he doesn’t care.

These ideas basically just popped into his head.

So, so many ways to reveal the beta’s identity.

But this?

Come on.

This is so obviously a trap, only a complete and total idiot would –

“How dare you?!”

Stiles’ mouth drops open.

He can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Someone just ripped the magazine out of Erica’s hands.

It’s a beta alright.

And not just any beta.

It’s fucking _Jackson Whittemore_.

And he’s hissing at Erica now, veins on his neck pulsating, going, “ _This isn’t for you!_ ” and stomping off – not following the other students, but shoving a poor freshman out of his way and vanishing around the corner, in the direction of the stairs.

And then it’s like they’re in a movie and the camera is on Erica who’s still leaning there, next to Isaac, and Stiles can see it all the way across the hall, that small, but meaningful gesture, how Erica, her arms crossed in front of her chest now, raises her head slowly, very slowly, just an _inch_ , a wicked smile playing around her lips.

And then she does it, flick her eyes up and look Stiles straight in the eyes, like she knew _exactly_ that he’s been standing there all this time, that he’s seen _all of it_ , and the words are hanging in the air between them, _‘There.’_

_‘There you have it.’_

 

 

 

Stiles is floating up the stairs and into the classroom like he’s in a trance.

He’s not even aware that Jackson is already sitting there, at his desk, his eyes following Stiles from the door over to his seat by the window.

He flops down, blinking ahead at the blackboard almost like he’s not sure where he is.

It – it can’t be Jackson.

Oh, God, but it’s all making sense now – who else would know about him?

Who else would give Stiles a fucking _tie_ – when Stiles doesn’t even own a dress shirt?

Who else would be able to pick out a gift that is so over-the-top and inconsiderate at the same time?

Oh – my God.

Stiles lets his head slowly sink into his hands, covers his face with his palms.

He has the oddest feeling in the pit of his stomach – like mortification, only he hasn’t done anything wrong or embarrassing. But – the idea – just the _idea_ of it – what the hell was Jackson thinking?

Of course, Stiles knows what a courting gift is. He knows because after Derek said it, he dug through the index of every single one of his school books and he found it in _The Bestiary_ , volume 3, twenty-fifth edition, by John E. M. Argent.

He’s just glad that Jackson didn’t fill up his locker with dead bunnies – the original courting gifts.

Oh, and he must have _seen_ Stiles standing there.

He must have _known_ that Stiles was watching – and he still chose to stomp over to Erica and basically – reveal himself as the secret giver.

Oh – God.

Holy – _shit_ – is that why Jackson broke up with Lydia the other day?

Stiles is slowly shaking his head, no.

No, no, no, no, that can’t be.

That’s the moment Scott throws himself into the chair next to him.

“Overslept,” he says, panting.

“Anything important happen yet?”

 

 

 

 

“Within twenty-four hours, the world takes a complete turn around itself. I want you to stop and think about how amazing that is for a moment. Twenty-four hours – and during _every single one_ of these seconds – _everything changes_.”

Josh Lindon, their applied natural sciences teacher, is lecturing, his tone full of emotion, as always.

Stiles still has his head between his hands – ‘ _Headache_ ,’ he muttered in Scott’s direction to make him stop looking so goddamn worried – but he’s staring ahead at the blackboard now, a weird, itching sensation in his chest.

And he can practically _feel_ Jackson sitting there next to Danny, all the way across the classroom, and his mind is going a mile a minute.

“Sorry? Mr. – Mr. Lindon?”

The old teacher touches his big glasses and frowns.

“Yes – Miss Finnick?”

“I – I was wondering whether you could tell us – about spark power.”

The class takes in a collective, deep breath.

None of them is typing away on their cellphones anymore or rustling through their notebooks.

It’s completely silent in the room.

Stiles, head still between his hands, feels like his heart just stopped.

“That’s not in the curriculum,” Mr. Lindon says, frowning.

“I know,” the girl called Bonnie says. “But – it’s all over the news, and I was wondering – if it’s true – that sparks can – can time travel.”

The crease on his forehead deepening, their teacher puts down the piece of chalk he’d been holding in his hands.

“Nonsense. Time travel is impossible.”

Bonnie Finnick’s blonde ponytail is whipping up and down when she says, “And what about – _time slipping_?”

It’s the term Freddie Galotti mentioned on Panic Radio this morning.

The whole class is looking at Mr. Lindon in expectation – something that has obviously never happened before because he almost drops his textbook when he takes a step forward.

“These are just rumors. Nothing specific. And I’m surprised at you – I’d have thought that living in the only supernatural town in the world that can be proud to call itself the home of not one, but _two_ sparks – I’d have thought that would make you a little less susceptible to this renewed wave of sparkomania.”

“But – we’ve never actually _seen_ them use their powers, right?” Aidan Schmidt is saying now and his fellow students join in with shouts of ‘ _yeah’_ and ‘ _exactly’_.

“And you should consider yourself lucky, Mr. Schmidt,” their teacher says back. “When sparks use their power – there is no telling _what_ might happen. Every time is different. Every outcome is different.”

“Mr. Lindon,” Danny Mahealani is saying now, “Do you think – in your own opinion, as an expert of the natural world, I mean – do you think the pressure wave on Monday was caused by a spark?”

Oh, Danny is sneaky.

The not-so-subtle flattery is doing its job and Stiles – he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are trembling and the only reason none of the betas are noticing is because they’re all listening intently to what Mr. Lindon says next.

Slowly, hesitantly, “I – don’t know. We’ve been discussing the possibility,” _we_ , obviously meaning he and the other teachers, but Mr. Lindon never finishes the sentence. Instead, he starts again with, “I can only tell you that – _technically_ , it wasn’t a pressure wave.”

Silence.

Everyone is waiting for him to continue and Stiles – he’s a mess, a complete and fucking mess and he knows that neither Allison nor Lydia presently dare turn around to check up on him. He can see them sitting there in their chairs two rows in front of him, completely immobile, trying to come up with a way to stop their teacher from spelling it out to the whole class that, yes, when you’re familiar with the reports, the studies and stories and numbers, you’d _know_ the signs.

That it couldn’t have been anything but a spark.

But then – they both also want to _hear_.

They want to know as desperately as the rest of the class what it is that sparks _do_.

What they _are_.

So they just sit there while Mr. Lindon says, “It’s not high school level physics, but – you should nevertheless have heard of the term _dark matter_.”

But, looking into blank faces, he continues, “Okay, let me put it in very simple terms. Dark matter is what we call the substance detected – that is, _conceptualized_ , by Jacobus Kapteyn in 1922. And – can anyone tell me what’s so special about dark matter? Miss Martin,” with a kind smile at Lydia, “I’m sure you came across the term.”

Lydia shifts in her chair.

Stiles can see her shoulders twitch once, almost like she’s trying to shake off an itch between her shoulder blades.

Then she clears her throat and says, “It’s – the substance held responsible for a certain kind of gravitation.”

“What does it look like?” Mr. Lindon says.

“Nobody knows. It’s invisible.”

“Exactly. Wonderful, Miss Martin. Not only is it invisible to the naked eye – but it cannot be made visible with any kind of manmade technology. So,” he says, clapping his hands together, “then, how do we know it’s there?”

When no one responds, he turns to Lydia who says, “Because it – _interferes_.”

And then she speaks again, her voice louder and clearer, and Stiles knows her long enough now, has heard her give answers in class often enough, to know that tone – it’s when, while talking, she’s gradually realizing _something_.

When the answer, the solution is slowly dawning on her.

“It _pulls_ – we only know that it’s there because it _has_ to – otherwise, the numbers wouldn’t add up.”

“And how-” Mr. Lindon starts, but Lydia is talking again, faster now, almost excitedly.

“Dark matter is detectable through its gravitational force. We know that it must have had a significant role when the universe began in the big bang. It’s also interfering with the cosmic microwave background – that is, radiation left over from the big bang – and it’s exerting force on the other matter in the universe, also through gravity.”

“Right,” Mr. Lindon says, smiling. “And what does gravity do – what _can_ it do, I should say? Maybe someone else now? Miss Argent?”

“It – pulls?,” Allison she clears her throat, “er – it’s the pull that an object, er – exerts on its surrounding.”

“Yes, gravity is what we call the force objects exert onto the space around them. What else?”

The students are blinking at him now, even Allison, obviously wondering what any of this has to do with sparks.

Except for two of them – who know exactly what he’s talking about.

One of them is Stiles.

The other one is –

“…it can warp _time_ ,” Lydia is saying now with a whisper, “The gravity of a planet can be so strong that it distorts timespace and – and dark matter can do the same thing.” She lifts her head to look up at Mr. Lindon who’s in front of her desk now, smiling kindly down at her.

“Only we don’t know what it is – because it’s seems to exist in a physical reality beyond – beyond-”

“-beyond our wildest theories,” Mr. Lindon says. He walks back to the blackboard. “Exactly. In 1968 and as part of his so-called ‘spark field theory,’ F. Hopper Argent first presented his hypothesis that the powers of a spark are related to dark matter and studying one in light of the other might open up a whole new view of the universe.”

He smiles at his class.

“So, to return to your question, Miss Finnick, I’d say that-”

But the class never gets to hear the end of his sentence.

Mr. Lindon stops and all the heads turn to the door – because they all heard it, too.

Two loud knocks.

“Yes?” Mr. Lindon says, frowning.

The door opens – and lets in a man in a blue polo shirt, blue-and red cap, brown shorts and white tennis socks that are pulled way too far up his legs and who’s looking sufficiently confused, almost like he didn’t expect a classroom at Beacon Hills High to be full of students at 9:30 in the morning.

He’s holding a clipboard up to his face and reads out, “Special delivery for, er – Stiles Stilinski.”

And then they’re all turning to look at him, every single pair of eyes in the classroom. Even Mr. Lindon is staring at Stiles in surprise.

Stiles, meanwhile, is pretty certain that he’s going to faint.

He staring back at them with big eyes, not saying anything, but the delivery man seems to have guessed who the name belongs to anyway.

He reaches down, into the hallway and picks up a brown cardboard box. Then he walks into the classroom and through the row of desks. Slaps the box down in front of Stiles.

“Please initial here – and here,” he says, holding a pen up to Stiles’ face.

Scott nudges him in the ribs and Stiles slowly, mechanically reaches out, takes it and signs M.S. with trembling fingers on the clipboard, twice.

“Good day to you all,” the delivery man says, tips his index and middle fingers to his cap, then walks out of the room. The door slams closed behind him with a loud _bang_.

Everyone is staring at the box in front of Stiles now.

“Mr. Stilinski – what is this supposed to be?”

Stiles lifts his eyes up to look at his teacher.

“I – have no idea.”

“Give me one good reason for not giving you detention Mr. Stilinski, for ordering a parcel to my classroom.”

“Because I didn’t order it,” Stiles says.

Of course that’s the moment he realizes _who_ did and the blush on his cheeks grows a deeper shade of red.

“Then who was it?” Mr. Lindon says, sounding annoyed now.

“I don’t know,” Stiles lies, his heart beating loudly – and that’s when the bell rings, finally.

But why – _why_ couldn’t it have rung five minutes earlier? He would have gladly accepted Jackson’s latest gift in the hallway and then, silently and secretly, gotten rid of it.

“Okay,” Mr. Lindon is saying now, “Okay, Mr. Stilinski. I’m going to let this slide. But make sure you don’t interrupt my lesson again.”

Stiles feels too overwhelmed, too defeated altogether, to point out to him that, _technically_ , he never even got to today’s lesson.

Everyone around him starts packing up, textbooks are being thrown back into bags and pencil cases closed with metallic clicks.

Stiles is staring at the box that is still sitting on his desk.

“Come on, you can’t leave it here,” Scott mutters and when Stiles doesn’t move, he picks it up for him.

Stiles slowly packs up his things – then follows Scott out of the room.

Five minutes later, Scott deposits the box on the floor of the English classroom, next to Stiles’ desk.

“What is it, Stiles?”

That’s the blond girl, Bonnie. She is eyeing the cardboard box curiously.

“Yeah, Stiles – special delivery? That was awesome,” Danny says and pats Stiles on the back. “What is it?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Bonnie says, “It’s a gift – what else would it be?”

“Open it,” someone else is saying now – and it seems like they’re all there, crowding around his desk, every single boy and girl of his class, some of which never even so much as looked him in the eyes before this moment.

“Come on,” Danny says, “We all want to see – Hinako is going to be late anyway.”

“Yeah, come on!”

Slowly, almost like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing, Stiles reaches for the brown tape that is wrapped around the box.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Lydia says sharply – and he stops. Blinks at her.

What is he supposed to do?

She must know as well as he does that the others won’t give up – that they won’t stop until they know what’s in the box.

But then, Bonnie simply takes the decision away from him by grabbing the tape and ripping the parcel open.

“Hey,” Scott says, “That’s not yours!”

And Lydia is commanding her to _stop_ , but the girl has already dug into the box.

She resurfaces with a smaller box, black, about the size of a stack of books. There’s no ribbon tied around it, but delicate silver lettering on top.

“Rodriguze – Lee – Smith and Co.,” she reads out. “Whuff – looks expensive. And it’s heavy, too. And – cold!”

A girl with short black hair wipes the empty cardboard container from Stiles’ desk and Bonnie places the black box in front of him, commands him to open it.

“It’s fine,” Scott mutters, putting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He sounds amused when he says, “Open it. I know what it is.”

“Ha,” says Ethan Schmidt, “I know it, too – but – dude, that’s _crazy_ expensive. Why the hell would someone give that to _you_?”

A moment later, Stiles is holding the black lid in his hands and is staring down at the open box – and now he gets why the wolves in the room already knew what it contained.

There’s two big, marbled pieces of wagyu – Kobe beef – in front of him, ice cold vapor rising from the box – a cooler, obviously – and despite how tightly sealed it was, some of the smell must have leaked out.

Now that he opened the box, it’s everywhere of course and even though he covers up his nose right away, Stiles can’t _not_ inhale it.

“Good heavens,” Allison is saying, “what kind of a cave man would give you a-”

But then she trails off, eyes wide.

Lydia must have guessed the truth as well because her eyes are swimming in unshed tears.

Luckily no one is paying any attention to them – or to the fact that the only person who hasn’t joined them is Jackson Whittemore.

Jackson is leaning back in his chair, a predatory grin on his face like he’s satisfied. Like everything worked out exactly the way it should, and Stiles can’t even laugh at how ridiculous this is.

Staring down at the red-and-white slabs of meat causes image after image to pop into his brain, and he’s reeling from the scent.

He takes two steps back, away from the box. Then, almost tripping over his own bag on the floor, he dashes out of the room, hand pressed up to his mouth.

 _Fuck_.

He knows it’s too late.

This time, there’s nothing he can do.

 

 

 

Stiles is hanging over a bowl in the second floor boys’ bathroom, vomiting his guts out.

Someone is reaching him a paper towel and a bottle of water.

Stiles wipes the tears out of his eyes and the bits of vomit from his mouth. Stumbles to his feet.

“Sorry,” he mutters, but Scott is smiling at him.

“No need to apologize, buddy.”

He gives Stiles’ shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“You okay?”

Stiles nods.

“Now it’s official,” Scott says with a sigh, “Jackson is the biggest douche of all the douches. I can’t believe he’s courting you.”

“….is Lydia okay?”

Stiles is rinsing his mouth.

He’s shaky and pale.

“…I – I don’t think so, man. She ran out of the room five seconds after you did.”

 

 

 

“A word?”

Jackson turns around to face Stiles who is standing right behind him, bag over his shoulder.

The cafeteria is noisy and swarming with students, as always. Stiles spotted Jackson sitting in his usual spot – next to Danny, Ethan and Aidan. Neither Allison nor Lydia returned to class, and apparently they weren’t in the mood for lunch either.

“You sure you want to do this?” Scott had whispered, a worried look on his face.

Stiles had nodded, lips pressed together in determination.

“Okay,” Scott had sighed. “Your decision. But I’ll be close.”

Then Stiles had walked up to Jackson.

They’re staring at each other now, Jackson with a frown on his face and Stiles clearly upset.

Ethan and Aidan Schmidt are sneering at how pale Stiles is, how strained his face looks and how absolutely impossible it is that anyone – _anyone_ with _eyes_ in their fucking head – could _ever_ even consider giving anything to _that_ – to a weirdo like Stilinski.

Danny Mahealani is not saying anything. He is just raising his eyebrows at Stiles.

“Shut up,” Jackson grits out in the twins’ direction. Then he gives Stiles a curt nod.

Raises from his seat.

He follows Stiles through the cafeteria. On his way out Stiles catches Erica’s gaze. She’s sitting at an otherwise empty table with Isaac, watching him leave with Jackson, a smirk on her lips. But neither of them is getting up to stop him.

 

 

“What the hell?”

They’re in an empty classroom now and as soon as the door slams shut behind them Stiles turns to Jackson, saying heatedly, “What on Earth were you thinking? What the – just what the fuck, man?!”

Oh, and he wants to _punch_ him so badly because Jackson grits out, “I don’t know what your problem is, Stilinski. Those steaks cost me 600 dollars.”

“What my--- _that’s_ my fucking problem! You don’t give me 600 dollar-steaks!”

Jackson is working his jaws like he’s really angry, but at the same time vividly remembers that he needs to hold back. To not mess with fucking Stilinski.

“Are you saying my gifts are no good?”

He reaches into his bag and takes out the magazine, throws in Stiles’ face.

“I’m saying I don’t want your fucking gifts! You’re dating Lydia, for fuck’s sake! And what the hell is up with _this_?”

Stiles holds the issue of Wereboy Magazine up in front of his face.

“I’m on pages fourteen-,” Jackson says back coldly, “-eighteen, and twenty-two.”

Stiles is staring at him like Jackson just said something in Chinese.

“I model,” Jackson spits out, corners of his lips turned downward, “And I broke up with Lydia. She’s just – baggage. I should’ve realized sooner. With her – I won’t ever get what I want.”

“What – the _hell_ – are you even talking about?!”

Jackson’s chest is heaving like he’s really angry.

They’re both looking down at the magazine in Stiles’ hands.

Then Jackson grits out, “So – are we dating or not?”

Stiles is staring at him.

He’s not sure he heard right.

Jackson couldn’t _possibly_ have said –

“Jackson, you don’t even like me!”

“So? What’s your point?”

“My point is-,” but then Stiles stops, is rubbing his forehead because he’s starting to think that Jackson is _never_ going to get it, “- I can’t _fucking_ believe this…”

“It’s the Alpha, isn’t it,” Jackson says in a clipped tone. “You’re his mate now?”

“What?!”

But Jackson just talks on like Stiles is not just standing there, in front of him, looking completely and absolutely flabbergasted.

“But then – I’d _smell_ him on you. So he hasn’t asked you yet. Or – he asked – and you refused.”

Stiles doesn’t even know what to say – other than none of this is any of Jackson’s fucking business – but the whole situation is so surreal that he’s incapable of reacting at all.

Jackson has taken a step in his direction and he’s still pissed – or, worse, he’s _humiliated_ – red anger spots on the edges of his cheeks.

“Anyway, as a spark you wouldn’t need the Alpha – if anything, Hale needs _you_ ,” and suddenly his whole demeanor changes.

“Don’t say that word,” Stiles hisses, “no one’s supposed to know.”

But Jackson is watching him, eyes narrowed, like a lizard eyeing his prey. He pulls one corner of his mouth up into a crooked grin.

“Okay, Stilinski, here’s the thing. My parents are filthy fucking rich which means _I’m_ going to be filthy fucking rich. I got a modeling contract when I was only twelve, I’m the Captain of the lacrosse team and every girl in this school would like to have a shot with me.”

He’s pausing, like he’s considering this.

“…and some of the boys, too, for that matter,” grin widening, “And if you choose me, not only can I protect you – every goddamn moment of your high school time is going to be fucking amazing.”

Stiles is staring at him open-mouthed.

For some reason, Jackson seems to take the lack of protest – and the look of utter bewilderment on Stiles’ face – as encouragement.

Then – and Stiles has no idea _how_ this happened, never even saw it coming – Jackson has stepped up to him, pulled Stiles flush against his chest.

And then he’s kissing him.

 

 

 

 

Scott had meant to burst into the room the moment Jackson said the word ‘dating,’ but Lydia was the one holding him back.

“Wait,” and she pulled Scott back by his slime-green woolen sweater, fisting her hand into Johnny the Bunny on his sleeve, “Don’t interrupt them.”

“Lyds,” Allison had whispered, her face full of empathy with her best friend, but Lydia had only said icily, “I want to know what he has to say.”

Because, you see, Jackson and Stiles were practically yelling at each other.

So it wasn’t hard to pick up the words, not even without supernatural hearing. Luckily, every single other student was currently either in the cafeteria, or outside in the sun, catching the last of the good weather for the year.

But then, there’d been this pause – and Scott had _known_ – and he is cursing himself now for not ending this sooner.

For ever letting it happen.

Talk it out with Jackson? Fine, but – Jackson is a fucking snake and Scott should have known.

When he’s throwing the door open, Jackson is already pulling away from Stiles, a disgusted look on his face.

“Ugh, Stilinski, you taste like vomit.”

“That’s because you’re making him throw up in his mouth,” Lydia is screeching and then she’s attacking her ex-boyfriend, fist raised. She’s pale with anger and, sure, Scott could have kept her from slapping Jackson.

But then, what good would that have done?

Jackson is holding his cheek, an expression of shock on his face.

“You piece of – you bastard-”

Lydia is panting.

She’s raising her fist again, not even bothering to wipe away the tears first.

“Lyds – Lydia,” Allison is saying. She has grabbed Lydia’s arm.

“Let go of me, Alli, I’m going to – I’m going to kill you, Jackson, I’m going to fucking kill you-”

But it’s not just them anymore.

There’s students at the door, glancing in, watching the scene open-mouthed. More students are stopping in the hallway, turning left and right to see what the fuss is all about.

You see, it’s hard to not hear Lydia’s banshee voice.

“What’s your _fucking_ problem,” Jackson grits out and, yes, he is truly humiliated now and Scott knows that that’s something he’ll never forgive.

“Jackson, go,” he tells him in a low voice. Then, turning to the students crowding the open classroom door, “There’s nothing to see here.”

Danny is there, too, and he nods, pulls the door shut again to give them some privacy, but they’re all still there, outside, listening, already hypothesizing what the fight is about.

Lydia is staring at Jackson and she’s not sobbing, but – her tears just keep coming.

She shook off Allison’s hand and when she speaks, Scott can tell that she’s trying to whisper and maybe – maybe she’s lucky and none of the weres outside will pick it up.

Maybe.

“You – _kissed_ him… you son-of-a-bitch.”

“So what?”

Jackson looks at her coldly.

Lydia moves her mouth, but nothing comes out. She’s beyond words now.

She’s so hurt. Scott’s heart aches for her.

And he knows Stiles can feel it, too, because he has this pained look on his face when he says, gently, “Lydia, I’m – sorry,” even though it’s not his fault – he knows it’s not his fault, but still.

Still.

Lydia pivots on her heel to look at him.

“Why did you come here, Stiles?” she whispers.

Eyes wide.

Run out of tears, finally.

 

 

 

Stiles wants to be far away.

He can’t focus on anything anymore that afternoon.

There’s this mess of emotions in the pit of his stomach and he just – wants to vanish. But of course, that’s not how it works. He may be a spark – but he can’t just log out of this reality because it’s getting painful.

Or unbearable.

_‘Why did you come here, Stiles?’_

And then Lydia had just turned around and walked away. When she’d opened the door to step out, the crowd in the hallway had parted to let her through.

Her very own red sea of shame.

Stiles has no idea what happened to Jackson’s latest gift either, but he suspects that Allison and Scott gave it away. And he doesn’t care.

Lydia’s seat is empty.

Jackson’s here, but he’s very quiet.

And Stiles is thinking.

He can still back out – it’s not too late.

After this period, he could pick up his bag, walk out that door, get into his Jeep and drive. Never return.

Go where people only see werewolves on TV. Where they don’t believe that sparks can warp time and space. Blend into the sad and driven masses in New York or Los Angeles or Chicago or some small town anywhere in the States like he never even heard of Derek Hale.

 

 

“Stiles?”

No answer.

“Okay... I get it.”

Scott never bothers him with questions. Just gives him space.

They walk out together.

“It makes sense. You need some time to clear your mind,” Scott tells Stiles when they’re in the parking lot.

“I’ll come up with an excuse for you. But – you’ll be back for practice?”

Stiles is staring down at his sneakers.

He shrugs.

“…you do know that – none of this is your fault?”

Stiles wrinkles his forehead.

“I – yeah, maybe. But I can still _change_ it.”

“You can’t change Jackson – believe me, he’s always been an asshole. He has pulled a lot of crap on Lydia over the years. Not easy to watch, believe me. But she hasn’t gone easy on him either, they just–”

“…belong together?”

“I was going to say ‘deserve each other,’” Scott says with a smile. “But I guess, you can put it like that. And this may have happened – with or without you. Get what I’m saying?”

Yeah.

He does.

 _But_.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell Scott that the whole thing is just a glimpse at what they’ll be getting when the world will find out about him. That it might happen any day, any moment.

Harbingers of big trouble.

But Scott is looking at something behind him – and Stiles turns around in time to see Derek leap from a wall in the distance. Then he’s already coming toward them, across the lawn, and he’s moving as he always does, gracefully but also a little oddly, almost as if walking upright doesn’t really fit him.

“Derek,” Scott says, long before Derek is in earshot, but Derek nods hello.

Then he’s there, in front of Stiles, tall and strong. He looks at him.

“I heard,” he says when no one else bothers to say anything.

Stiles shrugs again.

He has run out of emotions and since throwing up repeatedly this morning, hasn’t eaten anything either, so he’s feeling shaky and weak.

Derek seems to sense that, today, Stiles has no energy to fight him.

“I have food in my car. Mrs. Allen’s homemade pie.”

Stiles frowns at him.

“That’s how you bait me now? With food?”

“I know that you need to eat.”

“Derek, this is not a good time,” Scott is saying now, gently, as if wanting to make clear that he’s not antagonizing the Alpha – he’s just telling the truth.

“Even if I wanted to – my dad grounded me for getting into your car, dunno what he’ll do if it happens again,” Stiles mutters, “Chain me to my bed probably.”

Derek just nods.

“I understand. I didn’t mean to – how did you put it? ‘Abduct you’ again. I meant it the way I said it – I have food for you in my car. I’ll have Erica bring it to you.”

Watching him when he adds, slowly, “If that’s – alright.”

“It is,” Scott says before Stiles can even think of an answer. Then, “Thanks. We’ll be out on the bleachers.”

Derek frowns at him.

For a moment it looks like he’s going to scold them for skipping the next period.

Then he just nods.

Turns around and walks away.

 

 

 

“Wow, that was… un-Derek-sy…,” Stiles mutters when they’re rounding the building and make their way toward the lacrosse field.

“You think?” Scott says with one of his mysterious smiles.

“Uhm. Yeah. Yeah, I really think so. I mean – I have no idea why he actually showed up, but…”

“He was checking up on you.”

“Wait – _what_?”

But Scott only smiles.

 

 

 

“Stiles – I’m sorry,” Erica says breathlessly.

She looks it, too.

It’s odd.

Somehow Stiles thought she’d be one of these people who never apologize, no matter how badly they screw up.

Seems like he was mistaken.

“It’s okay, I didn’t really want it anyway.”

He digs into his bag, holds the magazine out to her.

“Actually, you can have it. Hot guys in this one. I assume. Haven’t really looked at it.”

And he really wants to get rid of it, too.

But Erica is staring down at his hand with this puzzled expression on her face.

“I – didn’t mean _that_. I meant-”

She takes a deep breath.

“Earlier, in the cafeteria. Jackson Whittemore. I – saw you leave with him and I thought – I thought Derek meant – for me to find whoever is sending you those gifts. And – and nothing more.”

“So?”

Stiles doesn’t understand.

Scott who’s sitting next to him nods, but doesn’t say a word. He takes the Tupperware box from Erica and opens it for Stiles. There’s even a fork in there, wrapped into a plastic bag and stuffed in neatly with two large pieces of pie.

Scott shoves the fork into his hand, then places the box in his lap, silently urging him to start eating.

“I – should have stopped him. I’m sorry – I’m sorry he forced himself on you.”

Stiles looks up at her in surprise.

She has this open, vulnerable expression on her face.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “Erica – really. All good.”

She nods.

Turns around and starts stepping down from the bleachers.

“We’ll be watching the game,” she suddenly says with a look up at them.

“It’s just practice,” Scott says, “There won’t be much of a game.”

“Still. We’ll all be here.”

She gives them a small smile before walking away from them. Stiles shoves a piece of pie into his mouth and starts chewing slowly. He watches Erica put one heel in front of the other carefully on the wet grass, all the way back to the school.

 

 

 

 

Pie really does make a difference.

Stiles is still wondering whether he’ll be depending on Mrs. Allen for basic survival in the future, but – yes, he’s still here at school that Thursday afternoon.

Whether out of weakness or courage, he’s not sure yet.

Jackson is giving him the silent treatment in the locker rooms – almost like Stiles had been the one who slapped him in front of all those students. But then, he never expected Jackson to handle rejection well, even if Stiles is certain that, deep down, Jackson doesn’t really _want_ him.

No way.

Then they’re walking out, sticks in hands, helmets under their arms. They meet the Beacon Academy lacrosse team and their captain on the field.

“She’s a woman,” Stiles says, puzzled.

“That’s Donna Nishimura,” Danny says back, a wide grin on his face. “She’s Coach’s nemesis. Just watch them. It’s fantastic.”

“Don’t let him hear that,” Marleen O’Connor says. She’s whirling her stick through the air. “Ha, to a good game.”

“To a good game,” Danny says back, but Stiles somehow forgot how language works. He’s staring at the other team, lined up behind their coach.

“Machines? Are you kidding me? More like – mountains,” he says breathlessly and Scott shrugs.

“I don’t think Coach will send you out on the field today – or me, for that matter. He’ll want to impress Nishimura and put up his fastest, strongest players. But if he does send you out there, just – run with the team.”

Then, whispering close to Stiles’ ear, “Don’t forget. You’re _not_ human either.”

“Okay,” Coach is yelling now. He claps his hands.

“I’m glad to have Donna and her team here today. She’s coaching at Beacon Academy and has been taking home the Lead Duck Cup every year since 2012. She brought her team to practice with us today.”

“Aw, Bobby, thank you for the nice words,” Nishimura says with a sweet smile. She puts a strand of her short black hair behind her ear. “But, really – since 2010.”

She steps forward, then looks at each of them for a moment before saying,

“As the best coach – ha, sorry, slip-up – as… the coach _of the best team_ in Beacon Hills I’m happy to be here and take a look at the progress you allegedly made.”

She is beaming at them brightly.

Finstock behind her looks like he really wants to strangle her.

Donna Nishimura’s team is smirking. Stiles can tell that they’re all betas, not a single human in that row.

“Okay, guys,” Coach is stepping up to them, “Let’s make this a clean, fair game. Ten minutes of warm up.”

Donna Nishimura has turned around and walked over to her team.

Finstock throws a look over his shoulder, then gestures for them all to come closer, _quick_.

“Anyone who beats Nishimura’s team in _anything_ doesn’t have to do Econ homework for the rest of the year,” he hisses, then waves his hands at them. “Shoo. Off you go.”

The bleachers are quickly filling up while Danny and Stiles are running rounds and the rest of the team is discussing strategical moves with Finstock.

“Man… that’s… a lot of people.”

Stiles can barely get the words out. He’s already panting heavily.

Stupid Danny though looks like he could go on like this for hours.

“Why are you stopping? We still have five more minutes.”

“What the…,” Danny is muttering, but he’s not looking at the bleachers, he’s looking in the direction of the school, at the wide lawn and school yard behind the lacrosse field.

Only – it’s not easy to see the lawn with all those people on it.

“Holy shit. It’s like the walking dead.”

“That must be hundreds of people,” Danny says.

“But – they do know this isn’t an official game, right?”

Danny turns to him.

“Do you think this many people show up to a game of the season? Bullshit. The most we ever had was two hundred – parents and other students. Since Derek left the team – and refused to play in any other – the people here have sort of lost their interest in lacrosse. But – I think they’re all here to-”

But he stops. Never finishes the sentence.

Stiles suddenly feels like he might yet throw up the pie, no matter how awesome it had been. He shouldn’t have eaten before the game.

All those people?

They’re here for _him_.

Only – they don’t know it.

 

 

 

“Stiles!”

It’s Corey.

He’d been talking with a girl – a girl Stiles recognizes – but now he’s walking over to where Stiles is still warming up and stretching.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Mh? Oh, that’s Tracy. Second year. She’s really nice.”

Stiles swallows.

Bites his tongue so he won’t say, _‘She wanted to dig into my rib cage and squeeze my heart out through my diaphragm this morning, but hey, I’m sure she’s a sport.’_

When Tracy catches Stiles looking at her, she gives him a shy smile.

Stiles tries to return it, but then finds himself unable to.

“Sorry to bother you, I just – I wanted to know if you’re okay. And to be careful on the field.”

“I am,” Stiles simply says back. “Okay, I mean. Thank you, Corey.”

He smiles at Stiles, then turns away – then turns back again and, hesitantly, says, “I… I thought you might want to know that – that I just saw the Alpha back inside the school.”

“Derek?”

“Yeah, er… he was kind of… ahem. He was sort of – taking Jackson apart.”

Right – where is Jackson?

Stiles hasn’t seen him since they left the locker rooms.

“What do you mean, taking him apart?”

“I – I went to get my Spanish textbook – forgot it in the classroom – and when I walked by the locker rooms they were talking, er – Jackson and the Alpha. I – I didn’t want to eavesdrop, I swear, just – the Alpha was so mad. He was just standing there, but I could _smell_ it on him. His blood – was _boiling_. I’ve never seen him like this, I mean – he’s so calm every morning, no matter what happens.”

Stiles’ heart is beating loudly.

“What was it about?”

But he already knows.

“About _you_. He – he said,” Corey is blushing, “he was like, ‘If you ever so much as lay a finger on Stiles again, I’m going to rip your throat out.’ And, Stiles-”

“Mh?”

“He _meant_ it, too.”

 

 

 

It really seems like half the town has suddenly taken a vivid interest in lacrosse, and they’re not only crowding the bleachers.

They also brought lawn chairs and picnic blankets.

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles mutters darkly.

Scott puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Relax. You’re feeling alright, aren’t you? I mean,” and he lowers his voice, “Stable?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles frowns.

He really does.

It’s strange.

Despite everything that happened today, this is turning out to be the most stable twenty-four hours he’s had since his awakening.

So – maybe Mrs. Allen was right.

Maybe it does get better.

“I can’t believe it,” Scott suddenly says.

Gerard Argent, Allison’s grandfather and principal of Beacon Hills High, is strutting out onto the field, holding a microphone. He is wearing brown shorts and one of his ridiculous Hawaiian shirts, a blue one with palm trees and a large red sun on it, but despite his taste in fashion, there is an undeniable air of dignity about him.

“How is this guy wearing flip flops? I mean – _how_?”

“He likes them,” Scott is saying darkly.

Gerard is looking around him and, for some reason, that’s enough to silence what must be hundreds of people on the bleachers and on the lawn around the field. Coach Finstock is standing next to him, looking highly uncomfortable and like he cannot believe – nor understand – how so many people have come to watch his team play.

“Welcome,” Gerard is saying gravely now, his tone in ridiculous contrast to his ugly shirt, “to the first non-game of the season. I’m principal Gerard Argent – and I’m happy to welcome coach Donna Nishimura’s team from Beacon Academy. The teams will be playing for the next sixty to two-hundred-and-eighty minutes. Lean back – and enjoy. What else is there to say? Ah… right,” and his lips suddenly part into a predatory grin that sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

“Anything goes.”

 

 

 

Then they’re playing and Scott wasn’t lying.

Nishimura’s team is brutal.

Jackson goes down during the first minute and Ethan is limping off the field, drenched in his own blood after another two.

After ten more minutes, Coach is yelling at them to get their shit together, he’s bright red in the face and jumping up and down, pointing this way and that and Jane Hinako feels forced to tell him to watch his language or she’ll have him removed from the game, Coach or no Coach.

So, it’s basically a gore-fest, out there on the field.

Back here, where Stiles and Scott are?

Kinda boring, really.

They’ve been watching for twenty minutes and Stiles, grimacing at the loud crack of Maleen O’Connor’s leg – a beta from the other team simply _jumped_ on it – averts his gaze from the field and finds himself looking into the steel-colored eyes of the second oddest figure out here.

“Scott?”

He nudges his best friend in the side who drops his comic book.

“Who’s Willy Wonka here?”

Scott glances past him at the man who’s staring directly at Stiles.

He has wild blond curls and is wearing a lavender-colored tailcoat – one of these things that must have been all the rage around 1790 – a pale green silk bow and a brown cylinder. A mysterious smile is playing around his lips, almost as if he heard what Stiles just said which –

Stiles keeps forgetting that that’s actually possible.

This is Beacon Hills after all.

The guy doesn’t really look like a werewolf though. More like someone blended the mentalist and Gene Wilder in a lab and then dressed the product in a costume from a low-budget Jane Austen movie.

“Oh, that,” Scott is saying now. “That’s Freddie Galotti. You know – from Panic Radio.”

“ _What_? _That’s_ Freddie Galotti?”

“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Scott mutters, “Probably waiting for something to happen. Tsss… ridiculous.”

Stiles can’t help but stare at him.

Freddie Galotti gives him an amused smile, then he lifts his right hand. He’s holding a microphone.

Stiles swallows and quickly looks back to the field.

Jackson is presently limping out there again, even though he’s had to regrow his teeth five times already, but he seems determined to be the last one standing.

 

 

 

Oh, the sheer endless irony.

You see, Stiles was fine.

He really, truly was.

His dad came up to him during the break, gave him a crooked smile and a pat on the back and Stiles smiled back, deciding that maybe, just maybe, the silent treatment was a little too harsh for the old man.

The sheriff might have been wildly wrong, yes, but, after all, he was trying his best at parenting.

Stiles might even forgive him later that evening, we’ll see.

Then Coach shooed everyone back on the field – everyone but Stiles, Scott and a bunch of other sorry excuses for Anything Goes lacrosse players – and Stiles took a sip of water, sat back down, and prepared to watch the second half of what is basically Beacon Academy completely running over the Beacon Hills High team.

Wiping the floor with them.

Or at least, that’s how Stiles can hear Freddie Galotti reporting it live to the listeners of Panic Radio – meaning to the rest of Beacon Hills, everyone who is not already out here and watching.

But it looks like they all came here in vain – and of course.

Because, right?

What are the odds?

And then, during the last ten minutes of practice, Coach turns to Stiles and Scott and motions for them to put on their helmets and get out there.

And that’s when it all goes South.

 

 

 

 

Stiles can feel it the moment he sets his foot on the field and it’s not because the mere thought of going out there – and not as a goalie, but as attackman – is making him want to throw up because, yes, they’re going to kill him, no way he’ll survive that.

But then the ground sort of tilts underneath his feet and Stiles stops.

Oh, no.

No fucking way.

Not now.

Holy shit, not _here_.

He turns, slowly.

Means to run, but then someone gives him a hard shove and he stumbles out onto the field, face plants into the grass.

“Scared, Stilinski?” Jackson is yelling. He wipes his mouth but it’s no use, he’s got blood everywhere, like someone dipped him in a man-sized pot of red ink, and he’s just smearing it around with his sleeve.

Awesome.

Something to make Jackson look even more like a driven madman.

Stiles grimaces.

He can feel his heart beating in his chest.

“What are you doing, Bilinski, get up!” Coach is yelling, and Jackson, a murderous expression on his face, pulls him up to his feet roughly. Then he’s gone, darted back into the game, eyes on the ball, always.

For a couple of seconds, Stiles is just standing there, breathing.

Breathing, looking around.

Panicking.

Then, all of a sudden, Jackson is there again, running, and when he passes him, he slams his own stick into Stiles’ chest and Stiles, without thinking, takes it.

“Payback,” Stiles can hear him snarl. Jackson’s eyes are glowing yellow, but Stiles doesn’t even have the time to consider what it means – because Jackson just handed him the ball.

Right.

Anything Goes lacrosse.

Oh – _fuck_.

“Stiles – _run_!!” Scott is yelling and Stiles turns – and does.

He doesn’t even know where the goal is anymore, all he can hear is the other team stampeding in his direction, making the ground vibrate. They’re all wolfed out and – oh, my God, they’re going to rip him to shreds.

“Stiles, look out!”

Scott again – but it’s too late.

Stiles never saw the guy coming.

Before he knows what hit him, he’s already on the ground, ball gone.

He can’t breathe.

It feels like the body check flattened his lungs.

But then – Scott was right, you see?

Stiles is _not_ human.

In fact, every single person on the field is more human than he is.

He can feel it before it makes sense to him. His spark is knitting his bones back together, soothes that stinging pain.

Stiles inhales deeply.

Holy shit.

His body is whole again. Derek’s bite mark on his back?

Gone, sealed, his skin immaculate again, like it had never been there.

And that’s not the only thing – the body check, it did _something_. The beta who hit him, skin on skin?

Stiles can taste his strength in his mouth, his sinewy power and boiling blood, the lust for the game and he’s reeling from it.

Panting, stumbling to his feet.

It’s overwhelming and – and he gets it. For the moment, yes?

The game is all there is, and there’s no existence beyond.

He stumbles forward, trips, then breaks into a run.

“Stiles, Jeezus, are you okay?” Scott is touching his arm, then wrapping his hand around it firmly while they’re running, side by side.

The wolf and the spark.

Stiles whirls his stick through the air. He’s breathing and seeing the field clearly for the first time, its layers are peeling away in front of him, the green grass and patches of brown earth feathering into multiple dimensions.

He breaks away from Scott, takes a sharp left. He knows he can’t attack any of the betas and to try would be sheer madness, he’s still infinitely inferior in terms of bodily strength, but – consider this.

He doesn’t _have to_ either.

It’s not really that he knows _where_ the ball will be in five seconds – it doesn’t work like that – but what he knows – what he can see clearly – is the ball’s very own reality, time and space wrapping around it, then emerging from it in waves.

So he knows exactly where the ball _can go_ and where all the players can go, every single one of them, a complex pattern of movements and strength and speed and one of the guys in the other team – a beta with a torn jersey and Jackson’s teeth marks on his lower arm – is a wild card.

He’s the one holding the ball right now and, rather than pass it to another player the way he should, he swings his stick through the air, meaning to hurl it directly into the goal.

Then of course everyone on the field stops, chests heaving. Despite the distance, the throw was a sure goal, but – no.

No it wasn’t.

It didn’t go in because, miraculously, a player from the Beacon Hills High team stopped it, and they’re all fixed on him, hundreds of pairs of eyes, all staring at this pale, lanky kid who’s not a werewolf, but who just made this incredible and perfectly improbable move, who leaped and caught the ball almost as if he’d known where it would be.

He’s standing there now, immobile, right arm with his stick high in the air so they can all see it, the little ball in his net.

And there’s just _something_ about him.

Something strange.

For some reason, it takes Nishimura’s team more than just a moment to break into a run and howl again and the families and students and teachers all find themselves holding their breath.

And it’s so odd, the guy is tiny compared to the bulky, feral betas who will have reached him soon, like a deadly stampede of werewolf power.

They’ll snap him in two like a twig, this fragile human, but when he moves, it’s only in the last second, and it’s too late, it _must_ be, the moment for him to get out of this unharmed is long past, he missed it, it’s over.

But – _what_ –

Something is going on with this kid.

No human could have pulled a move like that. Folded himself into the melee of players and then _out of it_ again, almost as if he’d walked right through their bodies, and emerged on the other side, only he didn’t, they all saw him there on the field the whole time, even though _what_ they saw doesn’t compute. At all.

And then he’s running.

He’s not fast, or strong and he’s soon surrounded with players from the other team, four betas flanking him and he’s darting to the left and zig-zagging across the field and, somehow, he manages to avoid them all, as if by sheer luck.

And on the bleachers and the grass, people are whispering about the _irony_ of a frail kid outsmarting them all.

Stiles can see the goal to his right, but he can’t throw that far and he has no idea where everyone is, Ethan, Aidan, Danny, Jackson, Maleen and that girl called Jenny, except for – _one_ of them.

Because he always knows where _he_ is, can sense his heart beating and anticipate his movement, he’s dashing forward a little further to the right than Stiles and he says his name.

“Scott.” – and then focuses. He can’t mess this up now, so he simply stops to take aim, then swings his stick and hurls the ball across the heads of the other players and Scott is there.

Just as Stiles knew he would be. Not because he’s psychic.

Because it’s Scott.

And he got it, he caught the ball.

Stiles can see him pivot and throw it into the goal, stick and all. The shaft hits the goalie over the head who is caught completely off-guard, and the ball tumbles out of the net, bounces off his shoulder, then hits the grass.

And that’s it.

The first goal for Beacon Hills High.

The crowd explodes, Nishimura’s betas are howling and groaning in frustration. Not that it would really matter, but it’s still a defeat.

Then they’re already playing again, but Stiles is just standing there, hands on his thighs and panting.

He desperately needs to catch his breath.

Holy – shit.

What a run.

Literally.

“Man, that was _awesome_!” Scott is saying next to him and he’s patting his back, urging him to start moving again, come on, don’t stop now, don’t give up, back in the game with you, and he turns his head to smile at him – and stops dead in his tracks.

“Stiles – your _eyes_.”

“Mh?”

But Scott doesn’t have to spell it out to him. Stiles didn’t pay attention to it before, he was so immersed that he never realized.

Opening his eyes as a spark always meant being yanked out of this reality forcefully and brutally – so he never knew that this was even possible.

That he’d been slowly, gradually and gently _threading_ himself into it, stepping away, beyond, one fiber at a time.

His eyes are burning purple behind his facemask.

It’s why he’d been seeing so clearly all of a sudden.

Scott is wrapping his hand around his wrist like he’s trying to hold on to him, to keep him there and Stiles – he could still walk away.

No one has seen yet.

He’s not uncomfortably unstable and only a little dizzy, but the thing is this.

Stiles is already halfway gone. He’s looking around, panting and drenched in sweat, and he doesn’t see the point anymore. He’s not a threat, his powers aren’t destructive or evil.

“Stiles – Stiles, what the hell are you doing?! Come on, we need to get you out of here!”

Scott has grabbed him and is trying to pull him away from the field. Stiles’ eyes dart in his direction and in the distance, behind Scott, he can see Derek running toward them, his eyes glowing red already.

But he never makes it.

Because that’s when the color and the hum, that beautiful tune, become all-consuming.

That’s when people’s eyes start wandering across the field, going left and right, and all the players simply stop.

They all felt it.

Like a ripple in the very fabric of this reality.

Stiles considers them all and he can see them for what they are. All of their memories, multiple pasts, presents, futures, their hopes, dreams and visions swept aside, he has their truest selves folded into the palm of his hand and he understands that you can’t blame them for coming here, just because they are desperate to know what it really means to be alive,

just because they _long_ to see, amid sweaty players and tricky lacrosse moves,

the face of God,

that Thursday afternoon at Beacon Hills High below a clear, indigo sky.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Scott manages to gasp before he falls silent, but the word doesn’t even make sense anymore.

People all around them are screaming because they can’t move anymore, because this _pull_ is stitching them to the ground, almost as if that purple light radiating from that kid’s face, from his whole body, cracked time and space open and, for the tiniest fraction of a second, dragged them all _through_ to a place ten thousand light-years from home where gravity is stronger and the sun is burning _brighter_ , singing empty lands, nothing on the horizon but the endless, blinking depths of the universe, billions of stars.

Stiles is smiling.

 _He_ knows that it’s only the human in them that’s afraid and that the fear won’t last, it never does.

It didn’t with him, see?

The incredible size, these wide open spaces and the sheer magnitude of it all doesn’t scare him anymore.

It liberates him.

He slowly lifts his head to direct his human gaze upward, so the last thing he’d see before he walks back and across, finally, the last thing he’ll marvel at before reality folds up and is sucked back into his eyes and time and space multiply and distance just peels away, will be

 

 

 

that vast and perfect blue that turns the word, the very _idea_ of a spark into an irony. Almost as if people had tried to describe something so vast, capture something so unimaginable that they decided to not mention infinity at all, to use a word that would only denote that core, all beginnings wrapped into the idea of a purple glow, like the head of a pin, around which everything comes into being.

On a Thursday afternoon, behind Beacon Hills High, Stiles follows the laughter from the lacrosse field back into that eternal indigo night before it all began.

And then, there’s just that tune.

The hum that permeates all,

but no need to be

ever again

 

 

Breathing.

 

 

Breathing.

And then, conscious of his own heartbeat, Scott starts moving.

He’s alive.

For a moment there he wasn’t sure he would be.

All things considered, though, he is fine, back in his body, breathing, feeling, smiling, hurting, and what he saw when he wasn’t, whatever it had been, he can’t remember.

Then he directs his senses at his surroundings and his wolf-ears pick up the sound of the wind and the rustle of hundreds of people slowly starting to move, some of them saying words they’re not even aware of, other completely silent, eyes wide, hearts racing.

He stumbles to his feet even though his arms and legs feel numb and then he’s sucking in air frantically and coughing.

Stiles.

Where is Stiles.

Scott turns his head left, then right.

He’s at the side of the field, has no idea how he got there.

The purple vortex, that beautiful glowing aura that had surrounded Stiles is gone and then he spots him and –

Something’s wrong.

Stiles is lying there, on his side, completely motionless and he looks so small and broken, out there on the grass.

Someone is darting past Scott now and toward the lifeless body.

The first to be able to move, the most powerful of them all.

The Alpha.

Scott is stumbling forward trying to reach them.

And Derek is kneeling next to Stiles. He looks absolutely wrecked, ruined, his face twisted like he’s in pain, but Scott knows that he isn’t, it’s because he’s looking down at Stiles, at the boy he could not save.

Derek is pulling the helmet off Stiles head slowly and infinitely gently.

Stiles’ face is pale, but not like death – more like ivory, like it has never been alive in the first place.

His eyes are closed, his lips red and unmoving.

“Son,” someone is gasping. “Stiles, no…”

The sheriff is with them and finally Scott knows what to do.

While Derek wraps his arms around Stiles, gathers him in, Scott grabs the sheriff, drags him down with him, holds him back, tells him that this is not his concern anymore, that there’s nothing he can do now.

This is not between father and son.

This is between Alpha and spark.

Scott watches Derek leave, Stiles’ lifeless, white arm dangling at his side, moving back and forth with every step the alpha takes, away from the field and toward the school – or wherever he means to go.

Nobody tries to stop him either.

Scott looks around, he has his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder and he lets his gaze wander, wondering what to do, how to help.

People are holding each other, most of them still too dazed to speak, some of them already sobbing, and that’s when he knows.

Out there on the lacrosse field against the darkening sky, he can see as clear as day that Beacon Hills has changed. This is the beginning of a new age, the twenty-first century that belongs to the young spark of Beacon Hills and in another couple of minutes the world will start turning around this place, this school, this field.

He bends down to pick up Stiles’ lacrosse stick and his helmet.

Then he straightens his back, his palm on the sheriff’s back and they start walking in silence, headed where Derek just vanished, where the school used to be, but it’s only a giant pile of rubble now, collapsed walls, wood and steel girders snapped in two like matches, brick dust, concrete and shards of glass.

Torn notebooks in-between.

But it doesn’t matter because Stiles?

He’s the spark.

And he already made everything new again.

 

 

 

 

_“This is Jessy Bennett for Panic radio, and I’m reporting live from the lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High – and this place is a mess. To give our listeners an impression, when I arrived here five minutes ago, it – oh, hold on, I just spotted my co-host Freddie Galotti who witnessed the whole thing. He’s just getting to his feet again, folks, and he looks rattled, I can tell you.”_

[Footfalls on the grass.]

[Groans and sobs in the background.]

[Static noise.]

_“Freddie – what did you see? Can you tell our listeners at home what happened?”_

_“I – I…”_

_“He needs a minute,”_ [laughs nervously], _“and I understand, I know that my heart is not the only one racing like a rocket right now. Freddie – the purple light that just swept through the whole town – what was that?”_

_“….”_

[Breathing and static noise.]

_“Was it a spark?”_

_“… yes. Yes, a spark.”_

_“Did you see who it was?”_

_“A boy – a teenager.”_

_“A student at the school?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Oh, my God, that’s incredible. I’ll tell you honestly, folks, I’m crying right now, the atmosphere here is unbelievable. People look like they just saw – the heavens open up. I’ll hand the mic over to my co-host now – Freddie, can you walk our listeners through the whole thing? What did you see?”_

[Breathing and static noise.]

 _“…. I,”_ [clears his throat], _“I… can’t describe it,”_ [clears his throat again, breathing, a cracking noise can be heard], _“I – don’t have the words. I can’t tell, I – there’s no – I can’t tell. I saw – I did, I did see – but I didn’t, I don’t think I did. I can’t tell you, I don’t have the words, but I’ll try, I want to, I will. I will.”_

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... I wonder if you saw the allusions to HP in this one - chamber of secrets  & Cedric Diggory after the triwizard tournament  
> ...also: a haiku by the great Matsuo Bashou is hidden in my text
> 
> \+ 'Ten Thousand Light-Years from Home' is the title of a 1973 science fiction short story collection by Alice Sheldon - I always thought the words sounded amazing
> 
> the wagyu-idea? my friend kingramses3 came up with that one - and there's so many more things I want Jackson to give Stiles (I'm just saying 'Discobolus of Myron' - imagine it with a lacrosse stick instead of a discus)....


	7. Big Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 -- A Spark wakes up in a strange place  
> 2 -- A Spark gets to see the Hale house and make a new acquaintance  
> 3 -- A Spark goes back to school

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, you guys are amazing. Prepare yourself for a way-too-long read: this chapter is all about the world learning about Stiles' powers. Mh, okay, not the world, but - everyone in Beacon Hills for a start. This contains hints of sterek, BUT Stiles and his unrequited (?) love will be the topic of chapter 8 - which is when we'll finally see Stiles make a move on Derek, too (or the other way around; not quite sure yet) - and then things will pretty much escalate from there...  
> The thing is: I'm not sure how far to go with this fic, so I'd really appreciate your thoughts on this - I got the feeling that this fic has a rather mixed readership, some readers wanting explicit sterek action and others who'd like for the romance to stay implied (a kiss, maybe?). So, hearing your thoughts would be incredibly helpful as a guideline for the next chapter.  
> <3 Thanks, and all the love <3

 

 

 

 

how I long to see

among dawn flowers

the face of God

 

(Matsuo Bashou)

 

 

 

1

 

_Excerpt from the PURPLE-files in the Beacon Academy digital archives stored on university servers_

_PHYSICAL ASSESSMENT OF M. STILINSKI_

_Rare Creatures-Lab, C-Unit, Beacon Academy, 5200 University Dr., Beacon Hills, CA_

_Transcript of Prof. Dr. Emily Calvin’s examination results, November 3rd, 2016, 5:21 p.m._

_Transcriber: Sheila-Lynn Carpenter, Ph.D._

‘… The subject is a 16-year-old male, although facial features show signs of HYBRIDIZATION. Pulse 140 (e), blood pressure 118/85 (r), body temperature 98.5°F (r), individual is stable, pupils dilated, ~~hert~~ ~~hear~~ ~~hert _’_~~

 

“Dr. Carpenter.”

“Yes, professor?”

“Is everything alright?”

Sheila Carpenter swallows and shoves her glasses an inch up her nose, a nervous habit of hers.

“Yes, professor.”

 

‘… heart sounds – ~~interesting~~ abnormal. Reflexes, test 04 at 5:28 p.m. – non-responsive. Pupils – still dilated. The individual seems comatose except our brain monitors show elevated brain activity. The individual _’_

 

“Dr. Carpenter.”

Her boss is clearly irritated.

Sheila Carpenter slams her glasses up her nose once again, this time almost jabbing the frame into her eyes. She is angry with herself.

You see – she is not usually this discomposed. She once stuck her whole hand into an non-sedated wendigo’s mouth to remove a glass shard from her gums and she did it without even blinking an eye, for God’s sake.

This though.

Sheila Carpenter was once labelled the best surgeon in the paranormal unit of Beacon Academy’s medical department – except of course for her boss, Dr. Emily Calvin, head of the department, who, at 55, is already a legend – but today, it’s almost like her hands have finally decided to give up, to fail her, to leave her alone with – with _this_.

The most important moment of her career. Her life, possibly.

But her hands are shaking so violently that she seems unable to fulfill a task as simple as fixing Dr. Calvin’s assessment in a transcript on her notebook – something she must have done over a hundred times throughout the past five years.

It might be the Alpha’s presence.

He is hovering in a corner of the room, eyes fixed on the examination table, the boy’s lifeless body.

The ruby glow hasn’t left his eyes ever since Dr. Calvin slammed the door shut behind him, and the color is deep and mesmerizing and consuming his handsome features, almost like it’s leaking out of his irises and bleeding into the room.

Sheila Carpenter doesn’t dare to look.

She doesn’t have to either, she can literally _feel_ Derek Hale’s presence even though she’s not supernatural. Even though she’s human.

It’s what people say about alphas, right? That kind of obscure paranormal science wouldn’t be in the textbooks, but Sheila knows the lore and she knows that it’s commonly understood that an alpha is never more powerful, more lethal, than when his mate is threatened.

But this kid, this – _Stiles,_ the sheriff’s kid, he couldn’t possibly be the Alpha’s mate. Could he?

As far as Sheila knows, Derek Hale never chose a mate.

And she would know, of course, because it is her job to be up to date on anything concerning their leader.

And, well, okay, yes.

Yes, she _may_ or may not have fantasized about the Alpha dragging her out of a burning house or a crushed car or an exploded lab and realizing that he could never live without her.

A nervous smile flickers across her face.

So that’s what it is, isn’t it?

A silly girl crush is finally interfering with her ability to think rationally and at such an important moment, too, right when it matters most. What an irony.

Dr. Calvin seems to have reached the same conclusion because she says, somewhat exasperated, “Dr. Carpenter, please, focus.”

And then, “Alpha – may I ask you kindly to leave the room. Your aura is confusing my assistant – not to say myself.”

Derek Hale slowly moves his head and fixes his gaze on the professor.

Sheila could have sworn she saw Dr. Calvin _flinch_.

But it must have been an illusion. Dr. Calvin never flinches.

“Alpha, please, this is of utmost importance for our undertaking.”

“ _I will not leave_.”

More a snarl than speech.

The feral sound makes the thin hairs on Sheila’s neck stand up.

Dr. Calvin sighs audibly, annoyed.

“ _Fine_ ,” she hisses and slams her notes down on the counter, next to a stack of sterile bandages, causing two of the packages to tumble to the floor.

“But your presence is not contributing to my ability to concentrate which, I beg your pardon, is vital now. We need to assess exactly what happened to this boy. If he is indeed a Spark, as you claim he is, our lives are in danger and so is everyone in the immediate vicinity of-”

But she stops.

Is never going to finish the sentence because the boy she is talking about, the one whose lifeless body had been carefully deposited on the examination table a couple of minutes ago by the Alpha himself, the one Dr. Calvin has her back to while she is raging at Derek Hale – he just sat up.

Not slowly either, like someone awaking from a long, deep sleep, but abruptly, like a body moved by a puppeteer.

Sheila’s heart starts beating wildly.

His _eyes_.

As if on its own accord, her hand finds her mouth, clutches it in horror.

In – in amazement. In awe.

Dr. Calvin’s mouth is moving, but she can’t seem to find her voice.

There are no words.

The boy’s eyes are radiating purple, an all-consuming color, and his face is the most non-human thing Sheila has ever seen and – she is scared.

Terrified.

The boy on the table tilts his head a little as if taking in the scene in front of him, the three people in the room watching him. Even the Alpha seems mesmerized.

Sheila can tell that Derek Hale’s whole body is wound up like a spring, ready to jump at the danger, if necessary. He is breathing through his fangs and his eyes, impossibly, are burning an even darker shade of red now.

“ _Stiles_ …?”

Sheila almost jumps at the low snarl, but then, her body seems frozen on the uncomfortable chair, notebook in her lap, its fans whirring almost inaudibly.

“ _Stiles_.”

The Alpha advances a step toward the table.

“Wait,” Dr. Calvin breathes.

Of course, she would. A portion of Sheila’s brain, the rational one, the one not currently in shock, tells her that, yes, Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff’s boy, is a Spark.

A newly awakened Spark with the powers to end this world and he is sitting up on the examination table, here in this room she has been walking into and out of almost carelessly throughout the past years, not knowing – not knowing what would one day happen here, right in front of her eyes.

And a wrong step now – and none of them would live to tell the tale.

Only the Spark would, but Beacon Hills would be swiped off the map in the blink of an eye.

“Give him – time,” Dr. Calvin whispers. Her big eyes are set on the boy.

“I need to-,” the Alpha grits out, then stops, his face distorted like he’s in pain and with that rational portion of her brain, Sheila wonders once again whether Derek Hale has, indeed, found his mate.

“Hush,” Dr. Calvin says, “It’s not safe.”

Tense silence for a couple of seconds, then, “His eyes – have to _go down_ first.”

Before any of them can even think of moving, Stiles Stilinski’s eyes must fade back to whatever their human color is. Light brown according to Dr. Calvin’s medical assessment. Sheila fixed that particular fact right there, on her notebook. She seems to have lost the ability to read, however. Her eyes wander down to the page and up to the boy again, helplessly.

He has not moved and it’s a good thing because she cannot meet his gaze. Sheila knows that her self would melt away in the purple fire like she was drowning in the river Lethe, the waters of forgetfulness.

A few more moments pass.

Then the Alpha moves, swiftly and elegantly, and before Dr. Calvin can react, he is in front of the Spark.

Sheila holds her breath.

The Alpha lifts his hands slowly – he is not fully wolfed-out, a decision Dr. Calvin had, were she not frozen, titled _unwise_.

“Stiles?”

Derek Hale touches the pale, thin hands that rest in the Spark’s lap. The moment his fingers make contact, Stiles Stilinski’s eyes fly down to them.

“RSM,” Dr. Calvin mutters almost despite herself.

 _Reflexive stimulus movement_.

An involuntary movement of the eye of a fully shifted supernatural creature, triggered by an external stimulus, yes.

The danger is not over yet. The Spark is merely reacting. There is no telling where he is.

There is not telling who he is – _what_ he is either.

 

 

 

 

It’s different this time.

Stiles can tell from the way his spark behaves – is behaving. Not just because he wanted it to happen. Because he let it in, he chose this.

It’s different because he is finally seeing clearly.

The veil is fully lifted and his mind is wide and open. He is the spark.

And when his body collapsed on the lacrosse field, he wasn’t scared. He registered the pain from his shoulder and cheek connecting with the ground, but he was already tasting prehistoric dust in his mouth and the scent of the air way back when, right after the water had first receded from the land, it’s so strange and other that Stiles knows he is changed.

No creature can see what he saw and feel what he felt and still be human.

So, he’s looking around now, back and across and beyond and it’s insane. What’s so marvelous is not just how big it all is, but truly knowing that he is an integral part of it and that beat of stars dying and being born?

It’s his, too.

He’s seeing it all at the same time, and he’s so far gone, but he can _still_ feel Derek’s firm grip around his body. With one shard of his consciousness he can sense that he is being carried away by the Alpha. Incredibly, across all that distance, Derek’s touch is making his blood boil, Stiles can feel it, and calling for him to return. It might take longer than usual, but he could do it.

But – why?

Why compress his mind and body in one sole spot, in that three-dimensional prison, when it could roam freely across dimensions and eons, travel this universe and far beyond?

Why would he want to return to being human and alone in his head, when he could be connected to all?

“Stiles!”

That’s Derek’s voice of course, a moment later – an hour later? – Stiles doesn’t know – and it’s vibrating through the layers of this world, webbing itself around Stiles, trying to trap him like a butterfly in a net and rail him back in.

But there’s something else, too.

Stiles lifts his head, eyes grazing across the horizon beyond this room – is it a room? – and beholding strange plants and creatures and even stranger landscapes – so familiar to him now, home – and then –

and he knows he shouldn’t, that looking back across time, looking this specific direction, at all these layers and layers, one inside the other, is enough –

But then he hears it.

He picks up the tune that is threading itself into his ears from a place so far away, Stiles cannot even taste it in his mouth yet. His eyes go wide with surprise.

And he turns his head to look.

 

 

 

 

“Oh no,” Dr. Calvin whispers.

Sheila finds herself unable to react in any way. Her hand has deserted her lips and wandered down to her chest, to where it’s now clutching her heart.

She is going to die.

They all are.

She has asked herself so many times whether she would see it coming, that moment when her time would be up, or whether it would sneak up on her and stab her in the back.

So, there is her answer now.

She can see it clearly, death, it’s sitting right there, ten feet in front of her on an examination table, with a beautiful face, almost unreal, and eyes burning purple in their sockets.

Ha.

A hysterical laugh is bubbling up her throat, but then doesn’t quite make it.

Death has purple eyes.

Who knew?

Her chair is vibrating and the air is filled with something she has never felt on her skin before.

The Alpha is gripping the boy’s hands now and he’s wolfing out fully and looking into his eyes intently and snarling, “Stiles! Stiles, come back! Don’t do this, come back to us!”

And then, “Come back to me!”

Oh, God.

It’s no use, it’s no use.

The last thing she hears is the Alpha’s desperate howl.

Then the notebook slips from her lap.

 

 

 

 

Take it all with you, Stiles.

He could do it.

Whatever he will wind up choosing, he _must_ move.

Being trapped in-between worlds is uncomfortable.

It’s not a place where anyone should linger.

It’s a borderline you are supposed to cross, and cross again, but Stiles is stuck.

 _Something_ is holding him back.

He can hear his human heart beating and it’s the oddest sound.

Return or move on, into the future?

The places he could go, right?

Or, return to his body, to his modest, human existence and to this hand that is gripping his own so desperately, and simply be Stiles.

Be Stiles.

It wouldn’t be so bad.

Or take this hand and the body it belongs to with him, take them all with him, all of Beacon Hills, carry them in his pocket to strange lands and other climates.

It would be _so_ _easy_.

But it’s not just this hand, there’s another heart beating in front of a door, beating, beating, another pair of red eyes holding him down, rooting him. His _other_ anchor is close.

It’s why he even has a choice: because he has two anchors, two alphas to help him channel his spark.

He could move on despite them though. His powers surmount the imagination and they certainly surmount anything an alpha could forcefully contain – or two alphas, for that matter.

Stiles takes a deep breath.

No.

No, not now, not – yet. It’s alright.

He’ll be just Stiles for a while. See how it goes. He might like it.

It’s Stiles Stilinski of Beacon Hills and it’s enough for now.

_Return._

 

 

 

 

When Stiles comes to, he is sitting on a cold, hard table. For some reason, he can taste the aluminum in his mouth which –

That doesn’t make any sense.

For a few moments, he is just breathing in and out, waiting for the purple flame to recede to where it usually lives, behind his eyes, and for the room to stop spinning.

Then, as his vision is growing clearer and clearer, the oddest scene unfurls in front of him. Almost like Stiles was thrown into the middle of an apocalypse and, like a miracle, he is the only one left standing.

Literally.

There are three people on the pale blue PVC floor in what looks like an underground lab.

No windows.

Medical appliances are strewn around the floor as if an earthquake had rocked the building mere moments ago.

A woman in a white lab coat is struggling to get back to her feet. The pale blond hair in her ponytail is streaked silver grey. She went down near a heavy-looking door, right below a flashing red light.

Another woman in a white coat, this one younger, with caramel colored skin and black frizzy hair, seems to have slipped from her chair and she is staring up at him, evidently terrified, her glasses dangling from her left ear.

And then, there is Derek.

Derek who can already move because he’s the Alpha.

Stiles can tell that he is shaky, too, but he’s on his feet, the red in his eyes extinguished for now. Derek is exhausted – he must have used up all his strength to bring Stiles here and –

Where the hell are they?

What is this room?

And who are these women?

And why is Derek still gripping his hand like his life depends on it?

“Stiles,” he presently coughs and Stiles flicks his eyes down to Derek’s pale face.

So handsome.

Of course, he is.

“It’s alright,” Stiles says because he doesn’t know what else to say. Everyone is looking at him like they are waiting for him to turn zombie or –

Oh, boy, is this what that is?

Some kind of a bunker or underground lab – like _Resident Evil_? And, on a suicide mission, Derek brought him here and locked them in so Stiles wouldn’t blow up the whole city.

That would explain the flashing red lights on the walls.

Code red.

Emergency state.

It also explains the weird metallic taste in his mouth. It’s from the walls. They must be made from something that is supposed to repel or contain him.

“Don’t move,” the blond, older woman, says sharply, confirming Stiles’ thoughts.

She is back on her feet and her gaze is piercing Stiles’ eyes. Her right hand is on a big, red button.

Stiles can’t help it, a chuckle forces itself out of his mouth. This is too ridiculous.

“You’re going to hit that button and poison us? Damn, great thinking…”

His throat hurts.

Derek, also back on his feet, is frowning at him. He is still holding Stiles’ hand in his own.

“Poison?”

“He can smell it,” the blond woman grits out. She is helping her colleague stand and then they both just stare at him.

“Smell what,” Derek says.

“Our last resort,” the blond woman says matter-of-factly, “A way to end whoever is in this room and spare the world a cataclysm – or sweeping fires or whatever a newly-awakened Spark is capable of.”

“Right, because that would totally stop me,” Stiles says. He has no idea why he is being so snarky and disrespectful. He just knows that he is tired and feels like he hasn’t eaten in a week. His head is swimming.

He wants to throw up to get rid of the taste in his mouth.

“Stiles,” Derek says again, but then doesn’t continue.

“Can you open the door? Scott and my dad – they’re outside.”

Derek looks puzzled, but the blond woman’s face darkens.

“I’m afraid, I can’t. I must make sure you don’t pose a threat before I can open the SMM-doors.”

“SMM?” Not a sarcastic comment this time. He is just tired.

What do they want from him?

He is back again, he is fully himself and he only barely remembers – it. Where he was. The other side.

“Super-massively-metal-doors,” the dark-haired woman presently explains and Stiles flicks his eyes over to her face. She seems to shrink under his gaze, but then straightens her back and forces herself to put on a smile.

“I’m Dr. Sheila-Lynn Carpenter, Terianthro-psychologist and cardiac surgeon and – this is Prof. Dr. Emily Calvin, head of the Department for Terianthro-psychology and the Study of the Supernatural at Beacon Academy, and world-renowned brain surgeon for supernatural creatures.”

“Thank you, Sheila,” Dr. Calvin says curtly. “That’s enough of an introduction.”

Then she directs her hawk eyes at Stiles.

“Do you know who you are?” she barks.

“Stiles Stilinski.”

“Do you know where you are?”

A frown.

“No.”

How could he.

And, eyes narrowed, “I have no idea where Derek dragged my body. Probably with his teeth.”

The Alpha doesn’t react. He is still searching Stiles’ face as if to make sure it’s really him.

“You are in the Rare Creatures-Lab of Beacon Academy, C-Unit and the Alpha brought you here because this is the only place in Beacon Hills equipped to deal with a supernatural apocalypse. We are preparing for it every day,” her voice, oddly, grows softer at this, “and the day to test our strength and resilience seems to have arrived now.”

“How do you know that Scott and your dad are in front of the door?” Derek says who seems to have no patience for Emily Calvin’s grave speeches. He has dropped Stiles’ hand and is taking a step back now, awkwardly. His eyes have faded back to hazel. He is fully human again.

“I can taste their thoughts,” Stiles says, fully aware of how strange that sounds.

But it’s the truth.

“You can _taste_ their thoughts? You mean – hear them?”

Stile shakes his head.

No, that’s not what he means.

And he’s so tired.

For a second, he sways, but Derek is already there. His hand shoots out to grip Stiles’ shoulder carefully.

“I think it’s okay,” Derek tells Dr. Calvin.

“With all due respect, Alpha, it’s only okay when _I_ say it’s okay.”

And then she steps up to the table slowly – almost reluctantly. Even she – even this hard-boiled scientist who must have seen all kinds of odd things in the course of her career is afraid of him. Of what he might do.

Dr. Calvin motions for her assistant to bring the instruments to the table and Dr. Carpenter, after dropping the same package with scissors three times, finally succeeds.

Stiles bears the examination even though all he wants is to go home so he can lie in his bed and pull the blanket over his head. He especially doesn’t want to be moved and touched with icy cold fingers, but it seems like there is no other way out that door than via Dr. Emily Calvin’s rough medical assessment.

The last thing she does is direct the neon blue light that is being emitted from a huge machine Sheila Carpenter has wheeled up to the table, at his cranium.

“Mh,” Emily Calvin says after staring at a monitor for a few moments. “As far as I can tell, his core is stable. I couldn’t even detect it earlier, this is – weird. To say the least. Alpha-”

And she turns to Derek who has been standing by silently, gaze transfixed on Dr. Calvin’s gloved fingers on Stiles’ white skin. As if making sure to catch her in a wrong move. Or to catch Stiles before he can harm her or anyone else?

“… it seems like what you told me of Alan Deaton’s and Prissy Allen’s thoughts on this matter is an appropriate assessment of Mr. Stilinski’s condition. Even though,” and there is an edge to her voice when she says this, “I wonder why I haven’t been informed of this earlier. We are here to avert catastrophes. How can we avert them if our Alpha keeps his Spark to himself? And a Spark, too, who, unlike any of the other Sparks currently alive, seems to be able to tap into the dimensional texture of our universe? This changes – everything, Alpha. Science books will have to be re-written. History will have to be re-considered. But how can we start when our Alpha is not willing to grant us the chance of staying alive for long enough to accomplish even a first step?”

Derek shoots her a moody look, but doesn’t respond.

For a moment, Emily Calvin is just looking at him. Stiles can tell that she is struggling with herself. Then, she finally says, “Alright. There is no telling _when_ a Spark will explode and it seems like Mr. Stilinski has already learned to control his powers which is unheard of – but not scientifically impossible. If he has indeed awoken earlier than today without causing casualties, as you claim, Alpha -”

“It’s the truth,” Derek simply says. “Alan Deaton has been collecting data on his awakening – you should refer to him for more details.”

Emily Calvin’s eyes narrow.

“We’ll see. I prefer my own data, Alpha.”

“Can you open the door, now?” Stiles pipes up. He has run out of patience. He is tired and he is terrified – terrified of what he might find outside the room. Seems like he didn’t kill anyone – he doesn’t _think_ he did, at least – but, he did _something_. And his dad and the whole town are probably freaking out about this something right now.

He vaguely remembers a lacrosse game and giving in to his spark in the middle of the field and –

Oh, God.

Stiles buries his face in his hands.

Great.

That means everyone saw.

“I’ll open the doors in a moment,” Dr. Calvin is saying now, her voice a little softer. “Alpha,” and she turns to Derek expectantly. “Please.”

Then they’re all turning to Derek who looks decidedly irritated now, corners of his mouth pulled down, eyes narrowed.

There is an undeniable aura of authority around him and it speaks to Dr. Calvin’s courage and, possibly, her own high rank as a world-renowned scientist that Derek’s apparent unwillingness to comply with whatever she wants doesn’t seem to faze her.

“Alpha – it is of utmost importance that you do this.”

No response.

“Do what?” Stiles says.

“Alpha, must I remind you of the rare instances where a Spark was left without a bond – of the havoc, the big trouble, that occurred as a consequence?”

Derek moves – but only to lift his arms and cross them in front of his chest.

Classic Derek.

A monolith of stubbornness.

“This is hearsay,” he says with a low voice.

“I beg your pardon, Alpha,” Dr. Calvin says stiffly, “I have personally investigated these matters and there are at least two reliable field studies done by Dr. F. Hopper Argent in the early ‘70s to prove that an unmated Spark is a lethal hazard.”

This is where Stiles’ brain kicks back in, finally.

“Wait - what?” he says loudly, but Dr. Emily Calvin just talks over his head as if he wasn’t sitting right in front of her.

“It is the least you can do to protect your town – to protect the world, if I may put it bluntly.”

Derek is looking decidedly sour.

“No.”

“This is madness!” Dr. Calvin says. “Irresponsible!”

“What is this?” Derek says sharply and the younger woman, Dr. Carpenter, stops dead in her tracks. She had been approaching Stiles’ arm with a big syringe and is now looking back at the Alpha anxiously.

“Baobab root with Kanima venom. It will calm him down.”

“I _am_ calm,” Stiles says. He is slowly but surely getting angry.

“I meant, it will slow your spark down, numb it for a while – hopefully,” Dr. Carpenter says apologetically. Meanwhile, Emily Calvin is still staring Derek down as if trying to get him telepathically to obey.

“Give him the bite,” she says in a tone of authority. “It is your _duty_ to do so, Alpha.”

“I will not,” Derek says back. His eyes flash alpha-red and Dr. Carpenter quickly says, “Professor, maybe the Baobab-infusion will suffice. If the Alpha stays close to him…”

“It might be too late then. Spark powers are unlike anything an Alpha – yes, even you, Derek Hale – has ever encountered. Theirs are _not_ supernatural powers. We refer to them as _galactic powers_ for a reason.”

“I will not mate a sixteen-year-old boy.”

“But he is _not_ a sixteen-year-old boy!” Emily Calvin says. She is starting to lose her temper. “He is a Spark!”

“Er, excuse me – I’m sitting _right_ here,” Stiles pipes up.

“None of us leave until you have taken Mr. Stilinski as a mate and anchored the wild energies of his spark.”

“Then none of us will ever leave this room,” Derek simply says.

Emily Calvin snorts out a hysterical laugh, then starts pacing the room.

Then she is rubbing her forehead, then her temples.

“ _Fine_ ,” she hisses after a while, stops in front of a cabinet of tubes filled with colorful liquids, and turns around abruptly.

“Okay, fine, since you will have it your way, Alpha – I will not waste more energy – I know a lost cause when I see one,” and she lifts her eyes to meet Derek’s cold gaze.

“May God help us all.”

 

 

 

 

Sheila-Lynn Carpenter, PhD, is carrying an empty syringe down the corridor of the Rare Creatures-Lab, C-Unit. She should have left it in Special Examination Room 3, in the bin for medical waste next to the chair on which Dr. Emily Calvin sank down a few minutes ago, but she simply forgot she still had it in her hands when she walked out of there.

When she realized, she was already on the way to her office.

Well, never mind.

She might as well throw it into the waste bin under her desk. Baobab and Kanima venom do not particularly count as dangerous and organically active waste.

The corridor is deserted – and so is, in fact, the whole building. When the Alpha brought Stiles Stilinski in, Dr. Calvin called Code Red which involves an evacuation of the unit and closing of the emergency gates.

The self-imposed quarantine only ended five minutes ago, after the Spark accepted the injection of the serum and Dr. Calvin opened the doors to let them out.

The Alpha and the Spark.

Unmated, too.

This could not be any odder.

Derek Hale will go down in history as the most headstrong Alpha there ever was.

Sheila Carpenter uses her transponder key to let herself into her office. She slams the door closed behind her and rests her back against it.

The Spark.

Stiles Stilinski is the Spark.

She touched his arm.

Sheila is staring down at the empty syringe in her hands.

He is the Spark.

She saw his eyes. She _felt_ his presence.

The fear that had welled up inside her almost immediately upon seeing the purple glow was the feeling of the world breaking away around her to make room for an incomprehensible vastness that will never not catch her unprepared.

Obeying her again, finally, her hand flies up to her eyes as she slowly slides down to a sitting position, overwhelmed, completely drained.

Sobbing because she _saw_.

 

 

 

 

2

 

“Kanima venom? How the hell is he still walking?!”

The sheriff is staring at Derek, open-mouthed.

“He’s a Spark,” Derek grits out and that ends the discussion.

Stiles has no idea what Kanima venom is, but it’s heavy stuff. He can feel his body battling its numbing effect. He can barely look straight.

“This way,” Scott is saying. He is pointing at an exit door across the deserted lobby of the Beacon Academy medical studies and psychology tract. “Dude, are you feeling okay?”

Stiles who just tripped over his own legs for the third time since leaving Dr. Calvin’s creepy dungeon, manages to nod.

“S’alright,” he mumbles. And then, for some reason, “Sleepy.”

He vaguely registers that Scott is extending his arms, probably to be ready to catch Stiles before he face-plants onto the marble floor, but a voice snarls, “I got it.”

All of a sudden, Derek is very close.

His arm wraps around Stiles’ back and, despite whatever the Kanima venom is supposed to do, Stiles can feel his face flush.

Apparently, not enough shit has happened today, yet. He just has to completely embarrass himself in front of his dad, and best friend and, of course, in front of Derek.

Before Stiles can continue investigating with his heavily slowed-down brain why Derek makes him feel like this every time he comes close – is it an Alpha-Spark thing? Is the dude just too hot? – his dad cuts through his thoughts with, “My cruiser is outside.”

“We’re taking my car,” Derek states.

“Er… sorry, Sir, but – wouldn’t that be kind of – dangerous?” Scott says, slowly. “I mean – _everyone_ saw and – I mean, don’t underestimate people. They must have figured out by now whose son Stiles is and they’d expect him to be in the sheriff’s car – or the Alpha’s – right?”

The sheriff lets out a deep sigh while Derek is directing Stiles toward the doors.

“You might be right, Scott. But according to Parrish, the whole town is still in a sort of – trance. They’re just realizing what happened and – I’m gonna have to get back out there as soon as I can… but it’s past midnight and I don’t think anyone will know the particulars before tomorrow morning. It only happened two hours ago and – not even in Beacon Hills, gossip can spread this fast. That means, we should be fine for a few more hours.”

Stiles’ brain is working very slowly, but even he can detect the edge in his dad’s voice.

Fear?

He clears his throat.

“…and then?”

Stiles had been talking to his dad, but Derek answers first.

“Then all hell will break loose.”

 

 

 

All hell will break loose.

Stiles has heard that before.

He is sitting in the back of Derek’s car – not the Camaro, this time, but a black SUV that Derek must have used to take Stiles to Dr. Calvin’s lab, but Stiles doesn’t remember. He is resting his head against the window and trying rather unsuccessfully to push the feeling of panic back down. Luckily, the baobab-and-kanima-venom concoction finally hits him and he starts slipping away to the sleep he so desperately needs.

It’s good to have Scott next to him. Somehow, it calms him down.

Then, of course, Scott yells, “Derek, what the hell?!”

He slams his palm into Stiles’ chest to keep him from hitting the seat with his face – unnecessarily, of course, since Stiles is wearing a seat belt.

Derek just floored the brake.

“Holy… Jesus,” he mutters.

Stiles is blinking after being brutally shaken awake like this. He’s turning his head this way and that.

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

His dad who’s in the passenger seat turns around.

“Hold on tight, boys. This might get a little rough. Derek, lock the doors.”

“Already did that right after we got in.”

“Perfect. Then let’s get out of here as fast as possible.”

Stiles can hear them before he sees them.

It’s hundreds of people and they are all outside what looks like – yes. Yes, this is _his_ street, _his_ house. It’s the Stilinskis’ place.

“I thought it would be safe to take you home,” Derek says. He sounds rueful, as if he had acted against his better judgement and was regretting it now.

“Drive, _drive_!” the sheriff says and Derek hits the gas and not a second too late. There are screams and shouts of ‘ _Alpha_!’ as people recognize Derek’s car.

“What do all these people want?” Scott says wide-eyed.

“Answers,” the sheriff says while Derek is staring gloomily ahead.

Stiles can’t say anything. He is watching faces fly by and is overwhelmed by a turmoil of feelings. He can sense them, each and every single one of them. They’re afraid, and angry, and hopeful, and desperate, and it feels wrong to just beat it.

Cowardly.

He swallows and when he lifts his eyes, he meets Derek’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The Alpha is watching him silently, throwing him a long look every three seconds.

Stiles rests his head against the seat and closes his eyes.

 

 

 

“Can you walk?”

Mh?

Who’s talking?

“Stiles…”

This word again.

“Wait, let me-”

“I got it-”

“No, I can-”

“ _I said, I got it, Scott!_ ”

“Boys, can you _please_ , for the love of God, cut it out?”

His dad’s voice.

What happened?

Why is his body so heavy?

“It’s the serum,” someone snarls, “It finally kicked in.”

“What? It’s supposed to knock him out and turn him into a vegetable? Are you kidding?”

“He’s exhausted.”

Someone is holding him and Stiles leans into the hug.

“I wanna go home, Nana,” he mutters.

The voices around him fall silent.

Then his dad says, his voice strangely raspy, “… you can’t – right now, Stiles.” And then, “Sorry, son.”

A short silence.

Then three hushed voices.

“I’m gonna have to deal with the chaos.”

“You can trust me with him, sheriff.”

“But wouldn’t it be better if I stay with Stiles? I mean – the people want their sheriff _and_ their Alpha. Right?”

Another silence.

“He is unstable. He needs an anchor.”

“You’re saying he needs you.”

“Yes, Scott. He needs an alpha by his side now.”

“Alright. Okay, I get your point, but – if you ask me, Stiles has been doing a pretty neat job without you.”

Another silence, this one heavier than the last.

“It’s decided,” Derek says.

 

 

 

When Stiles wakes up, he is disoriented, but strangely comfortable. He yawns and blinks. The blinds are closed, but he can tell that it’s day outside. A rainy and cloudy day. The wind is rattling on windows and doors.

He sits up slowly and turns his head.

The room around him looks like a prison cell. The walls are bare and the only pieces of furniture in here are a plain bed – the one Stiles finds himself on – and a wooden chair. In it, the Alpha of Beacon Hills is propped up like a mannequin, perfectly immobile, eyes set on Stiles.

“Er... okay,” Stiles mutters. The blanket slides from his upper body as he turns to Derek.

“Not at all a creepy sight to wake up to, er… so – are you dead?”

Derek’s face grows a little darker, but rather than responding he lifts himself from the chair stiffly.

“Have you been sitting there and staring at me while I’ve been sleeping? This whole time? However long that was because I have no clue, like, is it Friday already?”

Derek opens the door and a moment later, his steps are moving down the hallway.

“Hey – hey, I’m talking to you, hey-”

In his haste to get out of bed, Stiles accidentally gets his feet entangled in the blanket and while he manages to avoid a full face-plant, he still bumps his knees. Cursing, he pulls the blanket away from his legs.

“What the… _fuck_. Ouch… holy… _hell_ …”

Then he is traipsing down an empty corridor. He has no idea where his shoes are but other than that, he is fully clothed. He is still wearing his lacrosse gear, and –

What the hell is this place?

There are narrow and dark corridors and grand staircase stretching across multiple stories and countless closed and open doors – it looks like number 12 Grimmauld Place after someone removed the entire furniture and relocated the house to the middle of a dark forest. In the cracks between closed blinds and windows frames Stiles can detect patches of monochromatic greens and browns, leaves from tall trees that are currently being shaken by a violent rainstorm.

Why would Derek take him to a rundown and deserted building?

Stiles carefully puts down one foot after the other, making his way slowly down the stairs. His vision is blurry and he is not too sure whether his knees will support him all the way down to the first floor, but it looks like Derek bailed on him, so he must try to get himself out of here alone.

“Derek?”

No response.

“Derek? What the….”

Stiles has reached the foyer – at least, that’s what it must have been once.

Before the whole thing burned down, that is.

Parts of the railing on this last story are missing, others blackened and charred, the walls are covered in holes and the floor is sooty.

Stiles turns a corner into what must be the living room and is met with a huge, gaping hole. A part of the external wall is just missing – and not a small part either. Someone covered it up with a piece of green tarp, but there is water running down the edges nonetheless, rain that is being pressed in by the storm. It’s pooling on the floor in a large puddle – the very puddle Stiles finds Derek kneeling in front of and cursing like a sailor. He is apparently trying to mop up the rain and in regular intervals wringing out a giant yellow sponge into a red bucket.

“Er…. what on Earth…?”

Derek sighs, throws the sponge into the bucket and straightens his back.

“There is pie in the kitchen. Mrs. Allen dropped by an hour ago to bring you food you’d be able to – you can eat.”

What?

“What?”

“There is _food_ – in the _kitchen_ ,” Derek repeats more slowly and with emphasis as if he were talking to Stiles across a crowded room which – _nothing_ is more _unlike_ a crowded room than this desolate place, the epitome of absence.

“Where did you take me? What the hell is this place? And,” with a frown at the bucket at Derek’s feet, “why the hell are you engaged in what is clearly a perfectly futile endeavor? I mean,” Stiles gestures in the general direction of the room, “there is a _giant_ hole in the wall. In case you didn’t notice.”

“I’m aware of it,” Derek says dryly. Then he swipes past Stiles in the direction of, presumably, the kitchen and Stiles shrugs, sighs – and follows.

It turns out that there is indeed food in the kitchen – one of Mrs. Allen’s heavenly pies and Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek to tell him to dig in. Now that he smells the turnips and basil, he feels like he’s starving.

After watching him eat for a minute, Derek, rather sourly, starts with, “This _place_ – is my home. And I took you here – because this is where I can protect you the easiest.”

“Mrphmee?” Stiles says with a full mouth – swallows, coughs, and tries again, “Protect me? And, wait a second – this is _your_ place? As in – where you _live_? As in – the Alpha’s place? As in – the revered Ruler of Beacon Hills lives in a dump like _this_?”

Silence from Derek.

As good as a yes.

“You’re fucking with me.”

Derek’s eyes narrow at the language, but he remains silent.

“I mean – where-,” and Stiles’ face flushes, “- where is – everyone?”

Stiles remembers his dad mentioning Talia Hale, Derek’s mother. But where is she?

Where is his family?

“…it’s complicated,” Derek says. “As for the protection-” But rather than finishing the sentence, he walks over to where an old radio is sitting on the counter and turns a knob. Almost immediately, the room is filled with a very familiar voice.

It’s Freddie Galotti of Panic Radio and he seems in the middle of a lively recapitulation of the events of the past night.

_…an incredible feeling – that moment, when the rollercoaster drops – you know what I mean, Jenny?_

A female voice, going, _Yeah, yeah_ , then Freddie Galotti continues with, _And then everything, my whole vision kind of – faded – to darkness._

Jenny comments this with, _Wow – we’ve been hearing quite a lot about this darkness. What do you think it is, Freddie?_

_Well, Jenny, I’ve been talking about this for the past couple ‘o hours and we’ve been hearing other eye-witness accounts and I think it’s safe to say that this darkness is nothing more or less than death itself._

Jenny’s voice goes, _Unbelievable – you mean to say that – you died?_

And Freddie responds with, _That’s exactly what I’m saying, Jenny – that great big nothing, you know – we saw it – we came back from it – and we’ll be wondering for the rest of our lives what it all means._

_So – no white light? Just – dark?_

_Yeah, like a – like an eternal black night – for the first time in the history of the world, people witnessed the awakening of a Spark and lived to tell the tale – and we have a caller, er – Jacey Evans from Tulip Road here at Beacon Hills who was at the game last night to watch her nephew play and she has her own story, Jacey – it’s good to hear from you – what is your account of the night and the most important question – do you know his name?_

Before Jacey can form a sentence, however, Derek turns the knob again and the radio falls silent.

Stiles isn’t quite sure how to react.

“Er… so – they don’t know who did it – who I am, I mean?”

“Oh, they know,” Derek says grimly. “Freddie Galotti is just a sneaky son-of-a-bitch. So far they have only reported that the Spark is on the lacrosse team of Beacon Hills High – the memories of the people who were there last night are only coming back slowly – but I’m pretty sure, Galotti has your name at the ready to put it out there once people stop losing interest in hearing the same accounts over and over again.”

Stiles is staring down at his hands.

“Darkness,” he says. “I – is that – what they saw?”

Because that’s not what it felt like for Stiles. He thought he was showing them – well, _everything_.

Derek just shrugs.

“People are confused, they’re in shock. There’ll be more hearsay than facts, that’s how it always is with natural disasters.”

Stiles’ shoulders slouch.

Natural disasters.

“And that’s not all…”

Suddenly a remote is in Derek’s hand. He points it at a small TV that is sitting on the counter next to the coffee maker. It’s an old thing and the image explodes on the black screen with a static buzz.

Stiles’ eyes go wide.

A woman’s voice – perfectly matter-of-factly – voices over a series of photographs and short videos clips of what looks like a town ravaged by a hurricane.

[ _images of uprooted trees and cars on their roofs_ ]

_… point five on the Richter scale. The earthquake hit Beacon County, California, around 6 p.m. yesterday night._

[ _photos of a massive piles of debris_ ]

_Eye-witnesses report devastating scenes on the premises of Beacon Hills High in Beacon Hills, California, as the catastrophe hits during a game of lacrosse._

[ _fade to the camera slowly sweeping over a dazed crowd, people sobbing or just staring ahead with blank gazes_ ]

_The school building of Beacon Hills was reduced to rubble._

The last thing Stiles sees before Derek turns the TV off again is an image of the stone plate that says _Beacon Hills High_ broken clean in half.

Reduced to rubble.

He did this.

He, Stiles, reduced the school building to rubble.

He feels like he should apologize, but he’s not sure to whom exactly.

It takes a while before he can look up again to meet Derek’s gaze.

“I – didn’t know Beacon Hills had their own TV channel,” he starts with a raspy voice.

“That was CNN.”

“Oh…”

Well, that explains the false news that ‘an earthquake hit Beacon County.’ So that’s how supernatural occurrences are veiled.

“Was anyone – did I – hurt anyone?”

“No,” Derek says, his voice sounding softer than before.

“Not even, like – a broken arm or-”

Derek shakes his head.

The hint of a smile is on his lips when he says, “They call it ‘a miracle.’”

“A miracle?”

“You heard it – this has never happened before.”

Stiles frowns at him.

“What do you mean?”

“The unfiltered powers of a spark kicking in like this and – everyone survives.”

If Stiles didn’t know any better he’d say that Derek is trying to imply that he did a good job. He turns his back on Stiles to put the empty dish into the dishwasher and says, “We didn’t even know this was possible.”

“Mh…”

Okay – well, once again Stiles feels like _he_ at least should have known what a Spark is and is not capable of, but then, he doesn’t know  _anything_ and he is growing sick of that feeling. Like an itch he can’t scratch.

He opens his mouth to spit out the waterfall of questions that have been piling up in his brain for days now, but before he can even utter a sound a massive explosion makes him fall backwards over his chair.

His back hits the floor hard and his head is spinning from the noise.

And then, there’s Derek, close to him again, shielding his body. He is clutching Stiles to his chest and probably muttering curses, but Stiles can’t hear it because – he can’t hear. His ears are ringing.

“ _Fuck_!” Derek is receding a few steps back into the kitchen, dragging Stiles with him. “Stiles! Are you okay? Stiles!”

Stiles’ fists are gripping Derek’s shirt, almost of their own accord. He’s not sure whether he is confused from what sounded – and felt – like an explosion, or from feeling how warm Derek’s body is against his.

“ _Bitch_ …”

Suddenly, Derek’s arms are gone and for the fraction of a second, Stiles thinks he ran and just left him there which, again, speaks to how disoriented he is because a moment later, he can locate Derek three feet in front of him, wolfed-out and ready to attack. The low rumble that is filling Stiles’ hurting ears might be coming from Derek’s throat – or it might be this ruin of a house finally collapsing around them.

In any way, there is a giant hole where the TV and fridge use to be. The floor tiles are powdered in plaster dust and Stiles suspects that he is alive only because he is a Spark. He was hit by more than one piece of wood, so – it’s safe to say that someone just blew up a part of the kitchen wall.

And this someone is 5’8” with wavy blonde hair and the single most malicious smirk that Stiles has ever seen on a human face.

She puts her right boot through the hole, then her left, and shoulders what looks like a grenade launcher.

“Who’s that?” Stiles says to Derek’s back.

“Big fucking trouble,” Derek snarls. The smirk on the woman’s face widens into an evil grin.

“Aww, I knew you’d be happy to see me, Derek,” she says and advances one more step into the kitchen.

“I’ll rip your throat out this time,” Derek says. And then, “ _Kate_.”

“I missed you, too,” Kate tells Derek. Then her eyes find Stiles who’s still on the floor behind Derek and her smirk transforms into a wide-eyed stare.

“So… that’s him,” she whispers.

“Back off,” Derek says. “This is my last warning.”

But Kate, unbelievably, completely ignores him.

“Then it’s true… he’s _the Spark_ ,” she says and then, more swiftly than Stiles would have ever thought possible for a human, she sidesteps Derek and is in front of Stiles, reaching out to touch him.

A moment later, Derek has caught up with her.

His blow swipes her off her feet, but she smoothly rolls off and back onto her feet again, discarding the grenade launcher.

“You keep forgetting that I’m one of the masters of Anything-Goes Martial Arts – while you’re just a pathetic mongrel.”

Stiles could have told her without waiting for Derek’s eyes to flash blood-red that insulting the Alpha on top of blowing up his kitchen is a big fucking mistake. He quickly crawls back and away from the two people attacking each other now like they’re set to kill which –

They probably are.

Holy shit.

What is he supposed to do?

Isn’t he this incredibly powerful creature who can tear through dimensions and reduce schools to rubble?

And, what’s worse is that he’s not even sure that Derek’s winning. It’s taking him way too long because this person, this – _madwoman_ – Kate keeps bouncing his attacks with an almost superhuman agility and there is a loop of words in Stiles’ head, a prayer, a supplication, the attempt to implore his spark to flare up and do – something, anything.

_Come on, come on, come on, come on…_

There is an electric buzz and Derek howls. Kate poked him with what looks like a black stick and blue sparks fly in all directions from the contact with his body. For a moment, Derek seems paralyzed and Stiles watches in horror as he goes down, face distorted in pain.

But, when Kate turns her head and sets her predatory eyes on Stiles, the Alpha is on his feet again and this time, she does not see it coming.

He has her pinned down on the floor beneath him before Stiles even knows what exactly happened.

“Call your dad,” Derek grits out. He is holding Kate down with his left hand – she is spitting angry insults at him – while reaching into his pocket with his right to take out his cellphone, extend it for Stiles to take.

“Tell him I caught another trespasser.”

And, with an angry look down at Kate’s blond head of hair, “And tell him to call Gerard Argent. He can pick his daughter up in jail. Again.”

 

 

 

“She’s Kate Argent?”

“Yup.”

“The principal’s daughter.”

“Mh-mh.”

“Allison’s aunt?”

“Ah right, Allison Argent is in your class. A nice girl.”

Jordan Parrish gives Stiles a bright smile, then returns to filling out his form.

“You have the right to remain silent,” he tells Kate who is being cuffed-up by police officers. “This is your eighteenth offense, so prepare yourself for some time in our jail.”

“My pleasure when the deputy is such a hottie,” Kate says. “Nothing like the Alpha though. Am I right?”

And she winks at Stiles who, for some reason, can feel a sudden wave of nausea wash over him.

What a strange woman.

“ _Eighteenth_ offense?” He says and walks back over to where Derek is standing and looking at the new hole in his wall. “Kate Argent has blown up your kitchen _eighteen times_?”

“Not just the kitchen,” Kate is yelling from the foyer while Parrish says, “Take her away, guys.”

Derek lets out frustrated sigh. He is considering the remains of his TV.

“I can’t have any nice things.”

“Is that why your house looks like this?” Stiles says and gestures toward the living room and the foyer. “With the charred floorboards and holes and missing furniture?”

“… it comes with being an Alpha,” Derek says. He crosses the kitchen, opens the door to the pantry and rummages around for a few seconds. Then he re-appears with what looks like a large roll of green tarp, the same kind that he used to fix the wall in the living room, and starts uncoiling it.

“Random felons blowing up your kitchen comes with being an Alpha,” Stiles says, frowning. “Is that, like, in the fine-print or something?”

Derek pauses and looks over his shoulder back at Stiles.

“No, Stiles. It’s not in the fine-print. That’s just what power makes people do.”

“What it makes people do?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He rips off a piece of Gaffer tape with his teeth and starts covering the hole with the tarp. “You know – desire it. Everybody always wants power. That’s just how it is.”

Sounds logical.

“You need help?”

“You better sit down. You hit your head pretty hard.”

Stiles shrugs.

“I’m fine.”

Derek shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, I’m off. Sorry this happened, Derek. I have no clue what Kate wanted, this time.”

Jordan Parrish is leaning in the doorframe, right hand resting on the service weapon on his belt.

“Me,” Stiles says, suddenly remembering the predatory look on Kate’s face when she spotted him on the floor.

“I think she came for me – but – why?”

Derek turns around and he and Parrish share a look.

“No idea,” Parrish says then and he gives Stiles another one of his warm smiles.

Stiles looks back at him, frown deepening.

Parrish is lying.

But why? What could this woman want from Stiles?

“She can’t steal my spark – can she?” he says, reacting to a sudden, horrifying thought.

“No,” Parrish says. “That’s impossible. But there’s other-”

“ _Parrish_ ,” Derek says sharply and Parrish immediately switches lanes, “… other reasons such as Kate Argent being crazy again. Okay, Stiles – let me look at you. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I told you, I’m fine. Really, perfect. Everything is well. Why isn’t my dad here?”

“Er…,” Parrish and Derek share another look. Then the Alpha sighs and says, “Freddie Galotti released your name over Panic Radio twenty minutes ago. It must have happened right after we turned the radio off.”

Oh… fuck.

“… so your dad is being literally swarmed with questions right now. Don’t worry,” because Stiles looks absolutely horrified, “he has been trained for situations like this. Your dad can deal with a panicking mob. He’s one of the best. I promise. Okay, give me your hand – I want to make sure you don’t have any broken bones or internal bleedings or – magic splinters stuck in you. This Kate Argent lady is known to experiment with a lot of crazy shit.”

Stiles lifts his arm without hesitation, but Derek snaps, “ _He said he was fine_.”

They both turn to look at him and Stiles immediately lowers his arm again.

“Alpha – I have to make sure-”

“I am taking him to see Dr. Emily Calvin later anyway, Parrish. Thank you.”

Oh no, not to this hell hole again.

Stiles puts on a sour look while the deputy is considering Derek with a frown.

“Okay. As you wish. You’re the boss. But Stiles,” and he looks into his eyes intently as he says this, “let me know immediately if anything feels – _wrong_ to you. Okay?”

Wrong?

Odd choice of words.

And something tells him that Parrish meant it exactly the way he said it.

So Stiles nods and then Parrish is gone and Derek is telling Stiles to take a shower and put on the clothes his dad dropped off for him so he could finally get rid of his smelly lacrosse gear that he must have been wearing for almost a full twenty-four hours now. Not to mention blown up a school in.

 

 

 

 

 

In the shower, Stiles’ hand is fading in and out of his vision. He is blinking at it through a curtain of water – comfortably hot water – and for a few moments is mildly surprised.

Then of course, realization is dawning on him.

He’s gradually growing unstable again.

Oh, perfect.

Well, at least he’s in a place that is basically already in ruins. It’s not like he could do a lot of damage here. Still, the thought of Derek considering the remainders of his house as unhappily as he considered his blown-up TV makes Stiles’ heart ache.

_This comes with being an Alpha._

But Kate Argent is human – she couldn’t take his Alpha powers, so what the hell was Derek talking about? And what does she want from Stiles?

And why is it that the more awake his spark is, the less scared Stiles is? The more clearly he can see?

When he steps up to the mirror, body wrapped in a large towel, he can detect a faint purple glow in the back of his eyes.

 

 

 

Derek can tell that something’s up with Stiles again, of course he can. Can probably smell it on him, too.

He doesn’t comment on it though, and the drive over to Beacon Academy is a quiet one, with Derek taking all the back roads to avoid drawing attention. He doesn’t turn on the radio.

Stiles wants to know what’s going on and how everyone is, but he doesn’t ask.

For some reason, he’s terrified of Dr. Calvin’s underground lab and when Derek stops the car, Stiles has trouble even getting out, he’s so stressed that his legs and arms just won’t unfold, they’re so stiff.

When Derek knocks on the door of Special Examination Room 3 they can already muffled voices. Whoever is in this room, it sounds like they’re in a heated discussion.

The first thing that Stiles sees when he’s being let into the room is old Mrs. Allen. She’s in a chair – the same one Sheila Carpenter had been sitting in the previous night – and she’s swinging her legs back and forth, evidently highly entertained.

By what is easy to tell, too.

Dr. Emily Calvin, blond-and-grey hair in a ponytail, is facing Dr. Alan Deaton. His face is neutral, but Dr. Calvin’s cheeks are flushed. When Stiles and Derek enter, she is saying, “You can’t be serious, Dr. Deaton. Tell me that you’re joking – that this is all a joke!”

The door closes and they all turn to look at Stiles, Dr. Deaton and Mrs. Allen and Dr. Calvin and Dr. Carpenter and a male lab aide – a beta as Stiles can immediately tell. How he knows though? Not the faintest clue.

Then he catches Alan Deaton’s gaze and something moves in his chest.

Like – recognition.

Stiles can see the doctor’s true self and it’s – overwhelming, and the same goes for Prissy Allen who stopped swinging her feet and is now curiously eyeing Stiles.

“You were right, Alan, you were right,” she says, her voice a cheerful sing-song.

Alan Deaton nods curtly as if to say, _I thought so_. A faint smile ghosts over his handsome features.

“What – are you talking about?” Dr. Calvin says sharply.

She seems irritated to be left out of the silent communication.

“Oh, Prissy was merely confirming my assessment that Mr. Stilinski here,” Deaton gives Stiles an approving nod, “should be ready to get back to school as soon as Beacon Hills High opens its doors again.”

Huh?

Stiles can only stare at him. He kind of gets why Dr. Calvin is shaking her head and muttering, “Madness… sheer madness.”

Deaton watches her agitation in silence and perfectly unimpressed.

“I talked with Gerard Argent earlier,” he continues matter-of-factly, “and he assured me that the school will take all necessary precautions to ensure that Stiles will be able to pursue his studies like a regular teenager.”

“But he’s _not_ a regular teenager!”

“But he is, Dr. Calvin,” Deaton says calmly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Stiles?”

Surprised to be addressed, Stiles stutters, “Er, yeah – I guess.”

Or not – very much not, in fact.

What on Earth is Deaton talking about? Stiles is certainly not a regular teenager, he doesn’t even feel regular, he feels – peculiar.

“We prepared one of our special cubicles for him and he should stay in there until he has his powers entirely under control. For everyone’s safety, not least for his own.”

Special cubicle?

Stiles is frowning at the professor. That sure doesn’t sound good. Sounds like a euphemism for a cell. A padded cell, presumably, perfect for straightjacketed nightmares.

“And how long, pray, would that be?” Deaton says.

“According to my data – two years. Give or take.”

“What?!” Derek and Stiles say simultaneously.

“You want to lock him away for two fucking years?” Derek says, making a step in Dr. Calvin’s direction. She does not look intimidated.

“It’s the _only_ solution since you refuse to take the Spark as a mate.”

She throws Stiles a side-glance.

“Unless – you want to take him far away from here, Alpha, and to a place where he could not cause any harm. Since you prefer to hole yourself up with him instead of doing your duty toward your citizens.”

Before Derek can spit out an angry response, Alan Deaton says, “I told you before and I’ll tell you again, professor: Stiles’ powers exceed what we know of Sparks. That is, they exceed the data you have been able to collect so successfully from all other Sparks currently alive.”

“True,” Prissy Allen pipes up. She jumps from her chair. “Every Spark is different and Stiles could take that cell of yours apart in a heartbeat. And why even bother? If he truly loses control no one is safe – no one on this planet.”

Dr. Calvin meets her bright smile with a sour look.

“Oh, how reassuring.”

Stiles’ hands are in fists – not so much from listening to people making a decision, once again, over his head – but from the fact that he can feel something inside of him vibrating.

Alan Deaton turns his head and looks him in the eyes.

“Stiles will never lose control like that, however,” he says. “Because it’s not about control. And Stiles already knows that.”

Stiles nods curtly.

What Dr. Deaton says may be true but the fact that Stiles is currently struggling to stay on top, to push his spark down again, is not really helping his point.

Then, suddenly, he can feel Derek’s touch.

The Alpha put his hand in Stiles’ neck and is moving his index and middle fingers over his skin in small movements. Stiles can feel himself relax almost instantly. He leans in to the touch, infinitely grateful that Derek understood.

Grateful, too, that the Alpha is there when he needs him. Every time he needs him.

Maybe it’s not about control, but Stiles can’t deny that Derek’s presence helps him to stay focused. Balanced.

He remembers Derek’s teeth on his back, just above his shoulder blade, and his stomach tingles, but it’s a good feeling.

Alan Deaton smiles at him.

“I think we can cope. You can give him another injection of baobab and Kanima venom, if you deem it necessary, Dr. Calvin, but I think for all else, we have to put our fate into the hands of the young Spark. And then, what might or might not happen will be a matter of chance which is infinitely more interesting than any kind of statistics could ever be.”

 

 

 

 

3

 

Stiles spends the next three days holed up in his room and in conversation with his spark.

When Derek dropped him off that night the whole street had been closed off with yellow police tape – much to their neighbors’ chagrin who had to carry all their groceries down the street and were permitted to pass the sheriff’s house only after producing an ID – and beta-werewolf security guards were already surrounding the entire property. There were also four police officers in cars in front of the house at all time.

Stiles wanted to ask whether they weren’t, maybe, overdoing it a little – surely, people couldn’t be _that_ crazy – right? After all, what would they even want with Stiles? Break into his room to stare at him open-mouthed?

But when Derek pulled up to the house the Kanima venom had already kicked in and he had to be lifted out of the car. One minute he was walking, the next he had the vague sensation of being in someone’s arms – and then, nothing.

When he came to hours later it was still dark outside – he was developing the weirdest sleeping pattern – and when he reached for his cellphone on his nightstand out of habit, it wasn’t there.

Stiles found it in his backpack – of course, he hadn’t seen any of his stuff since before the lacrosse game. He couldn’t even remember where he’d put his bag then – into his locker? Probably. And then Scott must have taken it out and dropped it off for Stiles.

Stiles dragged his thumb over the display to unlock his phone.

Wow.

87 missed calls and 24 new voice messages.

His Whatsapp was basically exploding.

And it wasn’t just his dad (fourteen missed calls) or Scott (34 missed calls) or his grandma (two missed calls, one for every day he hadn’t had access to his phone) or Allison (she apologized for his aunt scaring the hell out of him in a rather convoluted voice mail that cut her off before she could finish), but numbers he didn’t know and the Whatsapp messages were all the same, about thirty that went like this:

 

_> >Unknown number: Hey is this Stiles Stilinski’s phone?_

_> >Unknown number: Is this Stiles?_

_> >Unknown number: Hey, I’m Dan, you’re Stiles, right?_

And then a few more direct ones:

_> >Unknown number: What happened on the lacrosse field?_

_> >Unknown number: Ur a spark yes?_

_> >Unknown number: Are you a spark?_

 

He had no idea how all these people had gotten hold of his number. He shook his head and started deleting them. Then he typed messages to Scott and Allison. He would call them, but it was 4 a.m. Just when he meant to put his phone away to get a few more hours of sleep, it buzzed.

He thought about it for a moment – then let out a sigh and unlocked the display.

 

_1 New Text Message._

 

Tsss. Old-fashioned. Another one of these, ridiculous. Stiles tapped on it so the text would open.

 

_Unknown Number:_

_Stay away from my family!!!_

 

Stiles was staring down at the display for a long time without really understanding what it said.

This message was different from all the others he had received. But – he couldn’t believe it.

Stay away from my family.

He was staring down at the words open-mouthed.

This person – whoever it was – was _afraid_ of him.

Okay, yes, in a way, Stiles could relate. He had powers that were, admittedly, terrifying – even to himself. And he had – what was it again?

Reduced the school to rubble, yes.

Of course, a lot of people would be afraid. And Stiles felt sorry for them, and for all of it, truly sorry. He didn’t want to hurt anybody – he did not choose this.

Or…

Did he?

He pressed the button for the display to fade back to black, but when he extended his arm to put the phone down on the nightstand, his fingers were trembling.

 

 

 

“How would they even be able to open the school again after only ten days? I mean – I’ve seen pictures…”

Not that he would have been allowed to leave the house.

Stiles was still kind of sulking over that, too.

“Oh, they hired an, er… construction company, had them come here all the way from Chinle, Arizona. They’re all gnomes.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows. He hates it when his dad does that.

“Sooooo?” he says, drawing the vowel long to emphasize just how little information his school books yield when it comes to understanding everyday stuff in Beacon Hills. And Stiles would know. Deprived of his laptop and of Deaton’s books, his textbooks had been the only source of knowledge available and after reading nothing else for an entire week, Stiles basically knew them by heart. He knew how tall gnomes were, what their origin story was and that their teeth were harder than diamonds which is why they’d been hunted down and killed for centuries before the Supernatural Creatures Protection Act ended persecution in 1968. None of this, however, has anything to do with construction.

“So… have you met a gnome?”

“Er – hello? Earth to dad? No, I haven’t? Because you never told me,” flailing his arms, “ _anything_ about _any_ of this. Remember?”

“Well… fair enough. So gnomes – are angry. A lot, I’d say.”

“Yeah, I know, I read about that. It’s got – er, something to do with their leathery skin? They’re basically always hot and it makes them kraykray.”

Must be insanely uncomfortable.

He imagines.

“Right. And their anger makes them excellent builders. Very strong and fast, you know? They live underground, too, and there’s something about sunlight making them faster – I think it’s to get out of the sun and back into their cool, dark caves as quickly as possible.”

Stiles is shaking his head slowly.

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Okay. Still.”

“Eat your eggs… these organic things cost a fortune, no way are we going to throw any of that away.”

Stiles forks up the last pieces of scrambled egg on his plate.

“…dad?”

“Mmmh,” his dad says, already reading the headlines of his paper.

“Can we turn on the TV? Please? Just for a minute? Or the radio?”

His dad puts the newspaper down.

“You know that Dr. Calvin said it would only trouble you which makes you more – unstable, I think, is the word she used.”

“I think I’ve got everything under control. It’s working pretty well and all. I swear. I’ve been practicing for days. It’s literally the _only_ thing I’ve been doing.”

The sheriff is frowning at him.

“Rules are rules.”

“That’s such a stupid – okay, listen, dad. I’ve gotta go back to school today – now, right now, basically, alright? I’m gonna walk into that building in twenty minutes and – just picture it, dad. I have no freakin’ clue what to expect – and it – it terrifies me, alright? I _need_ to know what is going on, this has been driving me _crazy_. Not knowing is just – I hate it.”

A long look, then an even longer sigh – and then the sheriff folds up his paper and pushes it paper across the table, then gets up to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“But not a word – to anyone. Not even Derek.”

Stiles nods – and picks up the _The_ _Beacon_. It’s the daily newspaper of Beacon Hills.

His eyes quickly dart over the page. Every single headline relates to what they seem to be rather neutrally referring to as ‘the incident,’ from the title page article entitled “What Happened on the Lacrosse Field” to smaller ones such as “Galotti: ‘We Saw a Purple Light’” and “The New Sparkomania.”

“Sparkomania,” Stiles snorts. “That’s bullshit.”

His dad is sipping his coffee rather loudly. Stiles looks up to him.

“What?”

“That’s er… that’s last week’s Friday issue. From the day after.”

Stiles makes googly eyes.

“You’re kidding… they put _this_ ,” he waves the newspaper around, “together after just a few hours? That’s insane.”

“That’s 2016,” his dad says. “And news like that always traveled fast. Stiles…”

The sheriff puts down his mug and lifts a bowl full with tiny rubber squids off what looks like another newspaper. Stiles quickly gets up from his chair to pick it up. It’s new and heavy and has never been unfolded.

“This is today’s issue.”

“You knew I was going to ask,” Stiles says. “You did this on purpose! Sitting there all sneaky and reading the paper from a week ago. You wanted to prepare me – what, for _this_?”

“I know my son,” the sheriff says. He walks back to his cup, picks it back up and puts it to his mouth slowly, almost thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but, c’mon, dad. I mean – how bad can it-”

But his voice trails off.

Stiles unfolded the paper.

The title page says _The Beacon_ in curvy letters – the simplistic drawing of an actual beacon separates the two words – and, below, in fat, black letters: THE NEW AGE.

And, below?

A photo of him.

Of Stiles.

There is a fucking photo of him in the Monday morning issue of _The Beacon_ , a newspaper that is delivered to the whole town and, according to his economics textbook, to every single English-speaking supernatural community in the world.

Stiles is staring at the image open-mouthed.

The caption below the title says,

_Stiles’ Stilinski (*Aug 25, 2000) awoke on Thursday night, the 10 th of October, around 6 p.m. on the lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High School. How dangerous is the young Spark? Who is he? And why the eyes of the world are on Beacon Hills now._

“I awoke on Thursday night? That’s bullshit – wait – How _dangerous_ am I? What the fuck?”

“Don’t get mad, Stiles.”

“I’m – not mad.”

It’s true – he isn’t. To be honest, he is – shocked. Absolutely, perfectly and utterly shocked. And how did they even get hold of one of his old yearbook photos so fast? And a particularly horrible one, he looks like a total idiot in this – but, oh, well. Whether he looks particularly dorky in a photo the whole world gets to see now isn’t really an issue anymore.

He’s in trouble.

Big trouble.

They may not have the particulars yet, but everyone knows for sure who he is now – what he is – that it was him – and he’s going to face the world in fifteen minutes.

Awesome.

That’s going to go down just peachy.

 

 

 

“Why do I have to go back to school again?”

He’s in the passenger seat of Derek’s Camaro.

“Because it’s the way.”

“The what?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“ _The way_. How things are done.”

“What?” Stiles is shaking his head. “Could you be even more cryptic?”

“We’re here.”

Stiles is throwing a hesitant glance out the tinted window. There is the shell of a new school building that looks a little bit like a house of cards taped together by a giant and, in front of it, a crowd has gathered.

Under different circumstances, Stiles would say that it’s the usual crowd, from jocks to nerds, freshman to senior, armed with sticks and baseball bats and waiting for the Alpha to arrive, but something feels different. They’re talking with each other in hushed voices and – it’s not just students. It’s everyone who has the right to be present on school premises and they’re all waiting.

For what?

A look out the other windows tells him that it’s not just students and teachers and lunch ladies and janitors – even the construction gnomes, tiny fellows with bright yellow helmets – that have gathered out here.

On the other side of the street, families have gathered in front of their badly damaged houses, doing repair work or pretending to go about their daily business when in reality they are watching the school.

There are grandmothers who are making the trip to the local bakery for the eighth time this morning, their baskets still empty because they dare not wander too far away.

There are dads who took a day off to fix the holes in their roofs, but they never even put up the ladders.

There are mothers who waved their kids goodbye twenty minutes ago but then never went back inside and now they’re just standing there, next to their mailboxes, unmoving. Waiting for – _something_.

For the world to turn.

It’s the creepiest thing Stiles has ever seen and he has seen a wendigo shift right in front of him.

“Do I have to get out there and go to school?” Stiles says, shrinking in his seat.

“I don’t know,” Derek says back, “Would you prefer to spend the next two years in a nutjob psychologist’s cell without any schooling at all?”

Derek has a point there.

“Come on.” Voice gentler. “I’ll stay close.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. Then he unbuckles the seat belt, grabs his bag and pushes the car door open.

All eyes are on him.

Not a word is spoken as Stiles steps away from the car. The sound of Derek locking it echoes across the neighborhood. He quickly rounds the car, then he is by Stiles’ side. And not only he. Four squad cars accompanied them to school – not just regular police, but heavily-armed guys in black bullet-proof wests. Stiles is glad that they don’t insist on walking in with him, either. They’re here to keep trespassers off school premises which means, first and foremost, reporters.

There’s a line of them, right where the lawn of Beacon Hills High ends and the pavement – public property – begins. Stiles turns at the sound of a hundred clicks. They have their cameras at the ready and are evidently trying to get a good shot of him, even from this far away.

Stiles turns back to the crowd. He feels like he’s going to faint.

The way everyone is staring at him. And how can hundreds of teenagers be _this_ silent?

Derek’s hand in his back is giving him a light shove and he starts moving, hadn’t even realized he’d stopped because, yes, there is the same look of wide-eyed surprise on Stiles’ face as on each and everyone’s in the crowd.

Then, Derek’s betas step up to them. Isaac is eyeing Stiles the way he did last week, but Erica smiles at him and says, “Hey, Stiles.”

Her voice is so loud in the midst of this collective silence.

“Keep walking,” Derek mutters under his breath and, awkwardly, Stiles advances toward the crowd and the crowd parts in front of him. All of a sudden, Stiles has this weird image in his mind: he’s raising his lacrosse stick and parting the Red Sea with it – which couldn’t be more terrifying than this.

Wait - was Moses a Spark?

It seems like the students were told not to take photos, but he can still see cellphones in people’s hands, trying low-key to catch a photo of the Spark’s first day at school.

Right.

He’s the new kid again, isn’t he?

This time though, it will be even more daunting, even more unpredictable.

“Hey, buddy,” Scott is saying. He is smiling brightly at Stiles and Stiles can feel himself relax a little. Scott detaches from the crowd and gives him a short hug. Allison waves at him cheerfully, and there’s even a smile and a nod from Lydia Martin. Jackson is nowhere to be seen.

When Stiles passes them by, Danny Mahealani who is standing with them looks him up and down as if he’d never seen him before, then tries to smile, muttering, “Hi, Stiles,” as well. When he falls silent, the brief moment of warmth and friendliness is over. Back to highly uncomfortable.

Great.

Stiles’ favorite.

The things is – not only are the open-mouthed stares enough to make him swoon. Throughout the past few days his spark has been lazy, but rather present, like a constant glow warming him from the inside and making him see and hear and smell and feel more than he usually would. There is consequently even more information for him to take in than for a regular human or animal or were.

First, he can immediately tell who is supernatural and who isn’t, and what they are, too, betas, wendigos, banshee, gnomes, nymphs, a ghoul, and things Stiles doesn’t have names for. Then, every single aura is different. To him, it’s almost like the people carry their hopes and dreams and fears in baskets strapped to their chests for everyone to see, but then, of course, only Stiles truly can.

The trees in the background are a little distracting, they’re big and old and beautiful and humming faintly and tiny things are scurrying back and forth at their roots and between the feet of students, but none of them can feel the light brushes against their pant legs.

The birds on the lawn between the reporters and the students fulfill a cheerful dance and no one but Stiles is there to admire the intricate choreographies.

But the worst thing – the most distracting and, simultaneously, the most fascinating – is _the web_.

It’s the fine, thin lines shimmering in multiple colors that stretch from every single person to everything around them, intersecting with other lines, forming infinitely intricate patterns that shimmer in the late autumn sunlight like spider webs in the morning dew. Some of them are moving, alive almost, like whirlwinds of color around a person. Others are rather still, and the thing is, Stiles knows what they all _mean_.

He can’t put words to it, but he _knows_.

It’s incredible that anyone could understand human behavior without seeing the relations every single being has with the world around them like Stiles does now, the way they’re bleeding into the grass or reaching for sky or lighting up when a friend is close.

“Stiles,” Derek nudges him softly and Stiles snaps out of his reverie. “Your eyes.”

“Mh?”

How did he get here?

“So… there is our new… Spark,” someone is saying in a tone not unlike sarcasm. The guy in front of him. Predatory grin, silver hair, Hawaiian Shirt.

It’s the principal, Gerard Argent.

Of course, Stiles saw him before, but Gerard Argent’s individual pattern of relations is pretty telling as well. While there are virtually no lines reaching out to students around them, there are a couple of bluish, shimmering threads that stretch out to where Allison is standing in the crowd. She is his granddaughter after all.

“Are you sure, it’s him, Derek?” Gerard Argent continues, a mock-friendly smile playing around his lips. “He strikes me as a little distracted. Rather – regular, I’d say.”

A wave of anger washes over Stiles and the webs turn dark red in front of his eyes, then vanish. Now they’re only present as a vague feeling he perceives around the edges of his consciousness. He’s fully here again.

“Could we take this discussion to your office, principal?” Derek says politely.

“Why, of course,” Gerard says with a broad gesture. “Be my guests.”

And he turns around and marches back to the school, his flip flops flopping ridiculously with every step he takes.

Derek’s hand is in Stiles’ neck now and Stiles is wondering just how many photos of this gesture of affection – of… possession? – will be in the paper tomorrow morning. He’s not sure whether he minds though.

 

 

“… lick of paint here, and over there, those doors? They put them in only this morning.”

While they’re walking, Gerard is briefing Derek on the repair works going on at school. Stiles can tell that Derek doesn’t give a fuck about whether the bathroom stalls are moss-green or police-blue, but he acknowledges every new and boring factoid with a polite nod.

A number of teachers is following them and they’re eyeing Stiles which he is trying very hard to ignore. How more uncomfortable could this day get?

The thing is – Stiles should have known better.

He should have known to _never_ ask that question because while it’s always a rhetorical one, it almost always gets answered right away – and Stiles’ answer is now detaching from their little group and walking ahead with long strides to open the door for them.

It’s Harris, and he almost trips over his own feet in the effort to be of service.

Stiles just barely manages to push down a loud laugh at the sight of Gerard Argent’s secretary, Aubrey Densmore, shooting Mr. Harris a hostile look, slapping his hand on the door knob and hissing, “ _I got it_.”

Stiles takes a seat opposite the principal and he can’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a lion’s den.

The fact that Gerard considers him with a cryptic grin on his face for almost half a minute before he says anything is not really helping either.

“So… our new _Spark_ ,” he says again with the same edge that Stiles could only, even though he has no idea why, describe as _threatening_.

“I have to say – I’m glad I returned to Beacon Hills in time to witness this – _glorious_ time firsthand.”

Stiles just nods. His mouth is very dry.

“But before we start – Mr. Stilinski, I must ask a – verification of your status.”

Stiles blinks at him.

“Verification…?”

“Well, you cannot expect me to simply accept hearsay, can you? If we are to instate all kinds of regulations for your protection, the least we can expect is that you show us that you are who they say you are. A proof, you may call it. Evidence.”

A grin.

Gerard’s teeth are very shiny.

Stiles doesn’t understand.

“I don’t – understand. What do you mean, proof?”

But before Gerard can answer, Derek says, “With all due respect, principal, but Stiles cannot pull a bunny out of a hat for you. He’s not a magician. He’s a Spark.”

“… I see,” Gerard says. His smile has grown thin. “Okay, then we have to move on without establishing the facts, don’t we? Alright. First of all-,” Gerard says, but Derek interrupts him.

“Principal Argent, I’d appreciate if we could talk – in private,” he says, flicking his eyes over to Adrian Harris who is standing awkwardly behind Gerard’s imperial armchair, arms pressed to his sides like he’s cold. His right hand is clutching a clipboard, but his pale eyes are glued to Stiles’ face.

All the other teachers stayed behind in the hallway. Stiles knows because he has to make an effort to tune out their chattering. They’re talking about him, of course.

“Oh, Adrian is my assistant. As vice-principal, he should be present for this conversation, I daresay. Besides, we are indebted to him for all the helpful – _arrangements_ he made so Mr. Stilinski would have a normal life here at school.”

If these arrangements include forcing Stiles to sort more colored cards in his creepy, sterile office, Stiles is pretty sure that he can do without Harris’ care.

“What do these _arrangements_ look like?”

“I beg your pardon, Derek, but shouldn’t the boy’s _father_ be the one with whom particulars are discussed?” Another one of Gerard’s mock-friendly smiles.

Stiles has noticed that not many people call Derek by his first name. The title Alpha seems to be a gesture of respect, of reverence, of polite distance. At the same time, it would feel wrong for Stiles to address Derek with ‘Alpha,’ and when his dad calls him ‘Derek,’ there is a certain amount of affection and trust to it. When Gerard does it, however, it seems to be a mark of disrespect. A denial to accept Derek’s authority as the Alpha of Beacon Hills.

“John Stilinski has the legal say in anything that concern his teenage son, yes,” Derek is presently saying. “But according to our laws, all decisions concerning his life as a Spark fall to the Alpha in power. A Spark’s life is a public matter, not a private one.”

Oh… okay.

Wow.

That means, hadn’t Derek intervened, Stiles really might be sitting in some underground cell right now.

“Fine… fine,” Gerard is saying. He is watching Stiles’ face closely. “Alright, then, Adrian – would you like to inform our Alpha about your precautions and arrangements for Mr. Stilinski?”

“Gladly – gladly,” Harris says with his thin voice and straightens his glasses with his right hand. His left is holding a stack of notes. In his trademark odd way of talking – with ill-timed pauses and strange emphases, he reads out, “1. All reporters… are – _banned_ from school grounds. 2. Teachers and students are not to take – _photos_ or bother the Spark or question the Spark… in any way about his – _nature_ as a Spark. 3. Teachers are to treat the Spark the same – _way_ as every other student. 4.  Courting gifts are _banned_ from school premises. 5. No one is to take – _advantage_ of the Spark’s powers for unfair… gain. Yes,” Harris concludes and touches his glasses again. “Yes.”

“Thank you, Adrian,” Gerard says with a particularly threatening smile that reveals two shining rows of teeth. Stiles is staring at a pineapple on Gerard’s left chest, right where his heart should be.

“These are general behavioral guidelines that will be put up all over the school.”

“All over the school?” Derek says with a frown. “Isn’t this contrary to our wish that Stiles have a normal high school life?”

“I don’t see how.”

 _Oh, really_ , Stiles inner sarcastic voice is saying so loudly, he is almost sure that Gerard can hear it.

_You really don’t see how this would put me on a fucking pedestal every single fucking day?_

Derek seems to entertain a similar thought, but he voices it a lot more carefully by saying, “How can the students learn to accept Stiles as a peer when a list of rules about how to interact with him is put up in every school corridor?”

“Oh, I was thinking, next to every door,” Gerard says and his smile grows brighter.

“I disapprove of this measure,” Derek says bluntly.

“As it is your right,” Gerard concedes. “However, as is my right as the principal of this school, I will handle these decrees as I see fit. But we are not at the end of our list. Concerning the Spark-”

He rummages around his desk for a few moments which Stiles considers pure show because the list Gerard finally produces has been in the front pocket of his shirt the entire time and surely the principal could not suddenly have forgotten about it.

“I took the liberty to jot down a few – additional notes.”

Stiles swallows. He can see the frown deepening on Derek’s face as Gerard goes through his list in numerical order:

“6. The Spark is not to lose control on school premises.

7\. The Spark is to report any sign of instability to the principal or vice-principal.

8\. The Spark is not to demand special treatment or different treatment based on his status as a Spark.

9\. The Spark is not to encourage courting.

10\. The Spark is not to undermine the principal’s or teaching staff’s authority at school.

11\. The Spark is not to talk negatively about the principal or teaching staff and/ or instated behavioral or educational measures to the press.

12\. The Alpha is permitted in the Spark’s vicinity on school premises only in cases of emergency.

13\. The right to measure, investigate and monitor manifestations of the Spark’s power while on school premises rests with the principal.

14\. The principal’s rights in relation to the Spark on school premises supersede the rights of the legal guardian, the Alpha, the mate, as well as other Sparks.”

Gerard folds his list back up and puts it into his left shirt pocket, underneath the pineapple.

“Any questions?”

Stiles is staring at Gerard open-mouthed. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Stiles will not sign these ridiculous rules,” Derek says angrily.

“He doesn’t have to sign them,” Gerard says cheerfully. “Mr. Stilinski’s attendance of Beacon Hills High School already entails his full acceptance of and agreement to every one of these – _ridiculous_ rules. You will be provided with a copy, of course,” with a nod to Stiles.

“Stiles will _need_ special treatment based on the nature of his powers,” Derek says emphatically. “And censoring his speech, monitoring his behavior and regulating his social intercourse constitutes a clear violation of his rights as a citizen of Beacon Hills.”

“Ah, but he’s not a citizen,” Gerard says. “Sparks do not, _technically_ count as either human or supernatural creatures. What they are has never been legally defined so we are, strictly speaking, looking at a grey area here. And besides,” and he is watching Stiles attentively as he says this, “this is _my_ school. I make the rules here.”

 

 

 

 

Stiles’ head is still swimming when he walks down the empty hallway with Derek ten minutes later. The first period already started.

He feels like he should have been less passive, voiced his outrage or asked at least a single question, but – this is so overwhelming.

And he wasn’t prepared for any of this. He has to take it as it comes.

They stop in front of the Econ classroom and Derek turns to him.

“Will you be okay?”

Stiles cannot suppress a panicked expression at this point.

“I don’t know! How would I know? I don’t have a clue. Will I kill someone – wait, _everyone_ today? Who knows? Is there such a thing in the supernatural world as seers or clairvoyants or something?”

“Banshees can feel death approaching,” Derek says slowly. “But my question was aimed at your nerves – Stiles, I can literally smell the anxiety on you.”

“Oh, well… thank you for saying that, that relaxes me immensely.”

“Cut out the sarcasm.”

“If you cut out stating the fucking obvious.”

He has no idea why he is lashing out at Derek and he is even less sure whether taking this irritated and, yes, highly anxious mood into the classroom with him is a good idea.

But it’s not like he has a choice.

“Hold still,” Derek says with a sigh. Before Stiles can come up with a snarky response, Derek’s eyes flash red. Within a heartbeat, his hand is in Stiles’ neck. Stiles can feel the Alpha’s claws pressing against his skin.

“Wait, what are you-”

Derek drags his index finger in inch down his skin placing a thin cut right below the rim of Stiles’ t-shirt.

“Ouch.”

Yes, it burns, but it also, to Stiles’ utter mortification, does something else to him. For some reason, his body can never be fine with just relaxing around Derek.

No, he has go way overboard.

From deeply anxious to horny. Awesome.

He wonders whether being the epitome of malfunction is a Spark-thing or whether it’s more a Stiles-thing, but Derek has already turned around, is already walking away.

It’s like he runs every time he accidentally gives Stiles a hard-on.

Or, maybe, just maybe – hopefully – he didn’t notice and just remembered that he has a bunch of stuff to do.

Stiles does not enter the classroom after that.

He is a completely different kind of shaken up.

When the bell rings, Scott finds him sitting outside the Econ classroom, a little way off from the door, head resting on his arms.

“Dude, why didn’t you come in – are you okay? You smell super-anxious.”

Again.

Obsessing, for a change, over his feelings for Derek and not over the question of whether this day will be the day he turns mass-murderer or not.

Stiles lets out a sigh.

“Yeah. I know.”

People start crowding the hallway. Most of them don’t see Stiles sitting there, but when someone does, they start and stare, almost like Stiles is wearing a Scream mask and holding a huge blood-dripping knife or something.

He looks up at Scott.

“Not sure if I feel ready to face…,” he pauses to watch a brown-haired girl run into her locker because she can’t take her eyes off Stiles, “… _this_.”

There is a dull CLONK, a high-pitched yelp of surprise and then about ten people go “Uuuh...”

“Ouch, that must’ve hurt,” Scott says. Then, offering Stiles his hand, “Come on, man – you can do it. I know you can. And, hey – you got us – right?”

Allison slides her arm around Scott’s waist.

“Right,” she says with a bright smile.

Stiles takes Scott’s hand and lets himself get pulled to his feet.

“Er – and by the way… mh, sorry about the – the totally embarrassing voicemail…” Allison’s cheeks turn a faint shade of red.

“I – really just mean to say sorry and didn’t know how to, I mean – my aunt is really a nice person, she’s just kind of – insane.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Okay. Mh – it’s not your fault.”

“And, I hope Gerard was nice to you…” She trails off, then starts again with, “…okay, I’m almost a hundred percent certain he wasn’t because he’s, like – a total creep, so – sorry for that, too.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says again, feeling even more stupid than before. “You can’t choose family, right? Just gotta lov’em.”

“Right,” Allison says with a grateful smile. Then, “ _Danny_! Didn’t you get the pamphlet? No photos!”

“Ooookay,” Danny Mahealani says, quickly sliding his phone back into one of the pockets of his large jacket. When he catches Stiles’ gaze though, he looks rather embarrassed.

“Sorry, Stiles,” he mutters, eyes averted to the ground, then he scurries away in the direction of the stairs.

“Pamphlet?” Stiles says, alarmed. “What pamphlet?”

“The one that was stuffed into the mailbox of every single Beacon Hills High student over the weekend,” Lydia Martin says as she steps up to them.

“I got five,” she adds, rolling her eyes and waving a couple of brochures into Stiles’ face.

“I got eight,” Allison says, “And not just in my mailbox.”

Stiles grabs one of the flyers and his jaw drops.

There is a photo of him on the front, the same one that was printed in _The Beacon_ , one of his old yearbook photos. The caption below read: _Stiles Stilinski, junior & Spark_.

And below that the very list of rules Adrian Harris just read out to him in Gerard’s office. And there’s text on the inside, too, but Stiles is feeling literally too weak-kneed to open it.

“When did you say you got these?”

Lydia lifts her eyebrows at him.

“I just told you, Saturday and Sunday morning respectively. You need to make an effort and listen, Stiles.”

Stiles can feel his irritation rising.

He wants to tell Lydia that listening to people and trying to figure out what the hell they’re saying is all he’s been doing all day and would someone please cut him some slack, but that would probably be a breach of Gerard’s bullshit list, somehow, and Stiles can see Adrian Harris hovering by his office four doors down, his wendigo ears perked.

“Come on, we gotta hurry,” Allison says who also spotted Harris, and Scott takes the leaflet out of his hands and rips it clean in half.

“Forget about this bullshit.”

Then, in a lower voice after they turned the corner, “It’s what Gerard does. He pops up for a couple of weeks, comes out with a new set of crazy-ass laws or some kind of a school-reform and lets his staff jump through a few hoops for his entertainment and then he vanishes and no one cares anymore.”

“Can’t argue with you there,” Allison says.

“…that’s just how it is. Just keep a low profile while he’s here and you should be fine.”

 

 

How Stiles is supposed to keep a low profile as the Spark of Beacon Hills though, he can’t fathom.

Something as simple as walking down a hallway has become virtually impossible.

Wherever he shows up, people just fall silent and stop dead in their tracks, so Stiles has to physically struggle through a corridor blocked by human pillars of salt.

They’re all exuding a mixture of admiration and fear and when they look into his eyes, it’s almost like Stiles can hear their thoughts slamming to a halt.

On his way to the history classroom, he almost runs into a sophomore – a young, pretty beta – who comes spilling out of the ladies’ bathroom just when Stiles walks by. She’s isn’t watching where she is going because she’s looking back over her shoulder at her friend, and Stiles instinctively holds up his hands to avoid colliding with her.

“ _Willow, look out!_ ” her friend says sharply and the girl turns around and stops just in time, her long, blond hair whipping through Stiles’ fingers.

It takes her a second to realize who’s in front of her and the moment she does, her face turns a deep shade of red. She flicks her eyes down to Stiles’ hands that are mere inches away from her shoulders and audibly sucks in a deep breath.

Stiles can hear her heartbeat radically picking up speed, but she isn’t scared of him. What he can sense on her is more like a feeling of – awe.

Reverence.

And, oddly, the very loud wish for him, Stiles, to reach out and actually touch her. It confuses him so much that he takes a step back.

The girl is staring at him with these big, burning eyes beckoning him to come closer.

Lydia lets out a derisive snort. She grabs Stiles by the sweater and drags him away from the beta. A look over his shoulder tells him that the girl is still just standing there and watching him with that look on her face.

“ _Stiles_ ,” she hisses as she shoves him in the direction of the stairs. Stiles tries to ignore the students freezing in their tracks left and right. This is gonna be such an exhausting day.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Stiles says defensively, trying to shake off Lydia’s hands. She’s a lot stronger than she looks.

“She was _flirting_ with you and unless you’re interested in her, you shouldn’t urge her on like this.”

“I – what? I didn’t do _anything_ ,” he repeats with outrage.

“Lyds,” Allison says soothingly, “It’s not his fault. Come on.”

“No, Alli, I can’t bear this sense of – male entitlement. Leading a girl on and then – washing their hands off her. Just like that. It’s just wrong.”

Aah, okay.

So this is where that is coming from.

Lydia and Jackson.

She hasn’t forgiven Stiles.

Suddenly, Lydia’s voice is echoing in his head. Something she said last Thursday after she caught her ex-boyfriend cornering and kissing Stiles in an empty classroom.

_Why did you come here Stiles?_

His shoulders slouch a little.

“You’re being unfair, Lydia, he didn’t-” Allison starts, but Stiles interrupts her.

“She’s right. I’m sorry, Lydia.”

“No, she isn’t,” Allison says, considering her best friend with an angry look. “She’s not and she knows it!”

Lydia opens her mouth to spit out a defiant response, but then Scott has already opened the classroom door and quickly shoves Allison through. The teacher is already in the room, so they all shut up and take their seats.

Jackson’s here, too.

While all eyes immediately turn in Stiles’ direction, Jackson just shoots him a quick side glance, then lowers his gaze to his textbook. He has his arms crossed in front of his chest and he seems determined to pretend that Stiles isn’t there which is, all things considered, not actually that bad. In fact, Scott, Allison, Lydia and, oddly enough, Jackson, are the only people here making him feel borderline normal, a feeling he finds himself craving desperately as soon as Mrs. Redbird starts her session.

She’s usually a tough and charismatic teacher and Stiles likes her a lot, but the knowledge of having _the Spark_ in her class has turned her to a stuttering mess. She is carefully avoiding to meet his eyes, but when she does, she blushes and forgets to finish her sentence.

It all gets worse when she turns to the blackboard and starts writing out the title of the historical episode they’ll be looking at for the rest of the period the way she usually does, but then, halfway through, she seems to realize that it contains the word ‘spark’.

She stops dead at “Modernist Media Iconography…” and lowers her hand. Then she turns around slowly.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking directly into Stiles’ eyes. “I… don’t really know how to do this.”

“Good,” Stiles pipes up, blushing slightly. “Because I don’t have a clue either.”

Nervous chuckles erupt around the room and Mrs. Redbird smiles at him. She takes a deep breath, turns back to her blackboard and finishes the title with “… Sparking Nationalist Movements.”

Stiles feels like the tension has been lifted a little bit, at least for now, and, by the end of the period, he has almost forgotten that everything is changed and that he will never blend in smoothly again, ever.

 

 

When Stiles opens his locker, several boxes come tumbling out into his arms. Some of them are wrapped, some aren’t, but all of them have a little note attached to them.

Allison picks up one – a box of chocolates – and reads out: “Dreaming of you <3 <3 <3 – Lizzie Jones (2B).”

“Who’s that?” Scott says and Stiles says back, “How should I know?”

“I thought courting gifts are prohibited?” Allison says, frowning at Stiles who is, rather unsuccessfully, trying to put the boxes back into his locker.

“And they are,” Lydia says with pursed lips. “But you didn’t really believe that anyone would actually follow the rules? When an _unmated_ _Spark_ is close? Grow up, Allison.”

Lydia is being pure poison today.

Allison inhales audibly and opens her mouth for an angry retort, but Scott squeezes her shoulder gently and she shuts her mouth again.

“Oh, hey, Stiles,” a faint voice is saying and Stiles who is picking up boxes of chocolates from the floor turns his head.

“Hey, Corey, how are you?”

“Great. You?”

Stiles throws the little boxes unceremoniously on top of the pile in his locker.

“Oh, fine. Better than I thought, despite…” But he trails off. There is a girl two lockers down who is staring at him with glassy eyes.

“… never mind. But hey, good to see you.”

He smiles and advances a step toward Corey, but the boy stumbles backwards as if Stiles had said ‘ _Hey, Corey, here, hold my incredibly poisonous snake for a second, will ya?_ ’

“Er, sorry, Stiles,” he mutters, blushing wildly beneath strands of glossy black hair. “But I, mh, I’d rather not come too close. It’s er – you’re kind of – overwhelming today.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says immediately, feeling stupid again. But what is he supposed to say? Sorry the smell of my blood is irresistible to you? How dumb is that?

“It’s fine, it gets better. I – I think,” Corey says with a faint smile.

“ _Move, you freak_ ,” a harsh voice is saying and before Stiles can react to what feels like a déjà-vu, Corey is roughly shoved out of the way. He hits the ground hard, his expression a mixture of shock and fear.

Stiles immediately loses his temper.

“The hell, Jackson?! Apologize to him! Corey, are you okay?”

Jackson turns his head slowly in his direction and meets Stiles’ eyes with an expression so hateful and toxic, even Lydia stops storing her locker with books and turns to watch.

“Only over my dead body,” he snarls.

“Oh, that can be arranged,” Stiles is saying heatedly, but before he can throw himself at Jackson to give him the punch in his stupid face he clearly deserves – and that Stiles has been wanting to give him ever since Jackson kissed and groped him against his will – a thin voice cuts through the air.

“Mr. Whittemore, Mr. – _Stilinski_ – cut it out!”

Oh, brother. Perfect.

Just like the last time Jackson provoked Stiles into punching him, Adrian Harris shows up just in time to prevent it and distribute unfair punishment, only this time, it’s not just a small group of people watching. It’s everyone, every single person in the entire hallway and there are more and more students arriving every second.

“What is this… _supposed_ to be? Mh? I _demand_ – an explanation,” Harris says which is, admittedly, progress compared to last time when he didn’t even ask and just _assumed_.

“Jackson pushed-” Stiles starts, nervous from speaking in front of what must be at least half the school by now, but Harris interrupts him. He has spotted the content of Stiles’ open locker.

“What the – Mr. Stilinski, are these _courting gifts_?”

“Well, what does it look like,” Stiles says, irritated.

Oh – big mistake, Stiles.

“ _Don’t talk back to me_ ,” Harris hisses. Red anger spots are already appearing on his cheeks. He is so agitated, he forgets to speak with his weird dramatic pauses.

“You are not to undermine my authority in _any_ way, this is a _clear_ breach of rule number 10, as well as rule number 9.”

“What’s rule number nine?” Scott says and Allison nudges him in the ribs, mouthing ‘ _Shut up!_ ’

“What?,” Scott says back to her in a low voice. “We only got a list of five rules.”

“ _The Spark is not to encourage courting_ ,” Harris hisses and when Stiles opens his mouth in outrage to protest, Harris turns on his heel and fixates his lizard gaze on Jackson.

“Whittemore, breach of rule number 4, courting gifts are _banned_ from school premises!”

“What?” Jackson says angrily. “These aren’t from me. As if I’d court a _freak_ like that!”

“ _You take that back!_ ” someone yells and the fraction of a second later, Jackson is on the ground, trying to keep his face out of range of sharp set of claws. It’s the girl from earlier, the pretty beta with the long, blond hair who almost collided with Stiles. She has Jackson pinned down beneath her and is punching everything she can reach.

“Right on!” Scott says, clapping his hands, but Allison is trying to grab a hold of the girl’s wrists and pull her away from Jackson.

“Miss Begay, detention!” Harris snarls. “Miss Begay, stop it!”

It takes four betas and Allison and Scott to separate the sophomore from Jackson and when they finally succeed, she is still fuming and kicking.

“Principal’s office,” Harris hisses, breathless from agitation. “ _Now!_ ”

Scott and Allison look at each other, sigh, and start dragging the girl away from the scene. Allison is throwing a look back over her shoulder, whisper-hissing, “Lydia! Lyd, stay with Stiles!” in the direction of her best friend, but Lydia raises her eyebrows, slams her locker shut and walks away.

“You two,” Harris says to Jackson who is picking himself up, looking pretty shaken, but cuts and bruises already healing – and to Stiles whose only defense is a shake of the head and a frustrated sigh.

“What the hell did _I_ do wrong?”

“I’ll say this one last time, do _not_ talk back to me, Mr. Stilinski!” Harris says, his voice dangerously calm now. “Follow me – _both_ of you!”

He’s marching them down the hallway past rows of students who are staring at Stiles and whispering to each other, already sharing inflated versions of what just happened.

Harris seems to only barely able to resist the urge to lock his office door behind them with his keys and give them a beating. Instead, he is visibly struggling to regain his composure, too angry to speak for at least a minute. Then he starts going through the papers on his desk – looking for the infamous _list_ as Stiles assumes – muttering under his breath about how Stiles _might_ be a Spark, but he’s certainly _not_ in charge here, about the fact that all of these Sparks are _out of control, all of them!_ , and about how Stiles evidently wants to use his new position to ridicule Harris in front of all the students and inflict lasting damage on his reputation.

Okay, Stiles gets that everyone’s eyes are on him now and that, to a certain extent, he has to set a good example. But Harris’ rant sounds a lot like a serious case of paranoia.

Stiles has finally learned to shut up though and bear the ensuing ten-minute lecture on proper behavior and power hierarchies, and the natural order of things here at school.

Jackson, for his part, seems to have decided on the same strategy. He is sitting in his chair with a sour expression on his face and arms crossed in front of his chest, looking oddly muted.

“Fine…,” Harris says after a short pause to catch his breath. “Alright, then. Detention for you Mr. Whittemore – Friday afternoon, my office, 2 pm sharp.”

Jackson nods curtly.

“As for you – Mr. Stilinski…”

Harris has found his trademark odd pace of speech again and the way he is eyeing Stiles now reminds him of the lidless stare of a lizard.

“I expected far better behavior – not only from you as a… _Spark_ , but also in your role as the Alpha’s mate.”

“I’m not Derek’s mate,” Stiles says and almost immediately bites his tongue.

Fuck.

Why, _why_ is it so hard for him to keep his mouth shut?

Of course this was Harris’ sneaky son-of-a-bitch way to gather information about Stiles and Stiles walked right into his trap.

“Hear, hear…,” Harris is whispering, demeanor almost cheerful all of a sudden. “ _Not_ the Alpha’s mate… Who would have – _thought_ that Derek Hale could be this… _irresponsible_.”

Stiles is pressing his lips together, angry at himself and determined to not utter another syllable in Harris’ presence.

“But… the Alpha is doing – _something_ to keep you at bay…,” Harris is saying, more to himself than to Stiles. Then he flicks his eyes up to Stiles’ face.

“What is the secret of your control?”

Stiles’ heart picks up speed, this time not from anger, but from agitation. Somehow, the tone of conversation has changed and Stiles isn’t sure whether he prefers cryptic plotting Harris to openly furious Harris or not.

“…everyone thinks that you are this – _greatest_ of all miracles,” Harris continues in a whisper, “…but I know better. It’s just biology. Chemistry. And your amount of control that was titled ‘historical’? A cheap trick. And there is… _always_ a logical explanation for cheap tricks. What is it, Stilinski? Is it… a Baobab-puppet?”

“A what?” Stiles says, so unsettled by Harris’ strange behavior that he completely forgets his resolution to not speak. He can see the puzzled look on Jackson’s face out of the corner of his eyes which means that Stiles is not imagining this. Their teacher is being exceptionally odd.

It’s something about his _aura_.

Stiles can’t really put a finger to it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Harris exudes something like _longing_.

Desire.

“It’s – on your back. I can sense the heat patch, right below your neck.”

Stiles jumps when Harris slaps his palms on his desk, then rounds it with the soundless speed that only a wendigo is capable of.

Before Stiles can even flinch in horror, Harris is behind him and screwing his hand around his shoulder.

“ _Show me_ ,” he hisses.

Stiles yelps in pain at Harris’ rough grip. Jackson who looks as shocked as Stiles, says, “Sir? I’m – not sure-”

“I can _smell_ – your unhuman blood… on your skin,” Harris says, his voice a whisper now, far too close to Stiles’ ear. “A were could never – _detect_ the faint hint of one – _solitary_ droplet or… the exceptional _sound_ of your heart, but I _knew_ – I _always_ knew! From the _moment_ you first set foot in my classroom I knew and… I listened to the song of your blood for answers.”

“Sir,” Jackson says, more urgently now. He has risen from his chair, but Harris barks at him, “Out! Back to class, Whittemore. And keep your mouth _shut_!”

Jackson exchanges a horrified look with Stiles, but a moment later he’s already out the door – the fucking coward.

It clicks shut behind him.

Then Stiles is alone with Harris.


	8. The Song of Your Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek always just naturally assumed that Stiles would stay unmated forever, or at least for a long time; he’s sixteen for God’s sake!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are awesome :* here's another chapter, hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

 

_what happened on the lacrosse field  ???_

_KISS don’t tell_ _∞_

[graffiti seen on an outside wall of Beacon Hills High school’s gym]

 

 

When Derek gets the call he is fighting off reporters. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“Erica?”

His beta sounds strangely breathless. But it might be an interference in the connection.

“Derek you have to come here, quick, you have to leave now, leave and come to the school-”

“Slow down. What is it, Erica? I can’t leave, I’m giving an interview. I’m not even close to Beacon Hills High.”

“It’s about Stiles, it’s – Derek are you already walking? Hurry!”

Derek holds up his hand in an irritated gesture to ward of the small, bald man with his camera.

“No, I said no photos,” he mutters. “Erica, can you please tell me what’s going on?”

His heart picks up speed.

Derek tells himself that it’s because of his instincts. Because it’s in his nature to protect and defend and his beta sounds distressed – the Alpha is getting ready to show his teeth.

 “Jackson just caught up with us-”

“Jackson… who?”

“This arrogant dude – he’s on the lacrosse team? Oh, hell, never _mind_ who he is, the _important_ thing is-”

“Ah. Jackson.”

Derek is quickly walking away from the reporters. Some of them are betas and he’s too tired to try and veil the wave of red-hot anger that washes over him every time Derek remembers this Jackson dude.

Erica is not pausing for Derek to shake off his irritation.

“… and he said Harris called him and Stiles into his office and that he sent Jackson away in order to _check out_ Stiles, or something, and that he was behaving strangely and was kind of – not really under control anymore when Jackson left the office.”

“Stiles?”

“No! Weren’t you listening! Harris! Harris is about to lose control!”

“What? How does Jackson know? And how do you know he’s not just messing with you?” Derek throws an annoyed look back at the interviewer who is waiting for him a few feet away, by the window and, next to her, five others who want the Alpha’s statement on the latest events. “I got the impression that this kid is kind of a rat,” he adds.

“I don’t think he’s lying. I think he was telling the truth – Jackson says Harris was drooling over the smell of Stiles’ blood and that he’s about to eat him!”

“What?”

Derek blinks. Oh, buddy… there’s so much he still has to teach his betas – and with what time? He barely slept last night and hasn’t had a good talk with any of the two in almost a month.

“Erica, Harris is not going to eat Stiles. Wendigos aren’t these out-of-control creatures that everyone thinks they are. Besides, Stiles is so much stronger than Harris – he doesn’t know it yet, but he could easily defend himself. I swear, if that’s why you interrupted me, I-”

“Harris is about to eat Stiles,” Erica insists. Derek is rubbing his forehead. Why did he have to pick the most headstrong girl for a beta he could find in all of Beacon-

“He’s about to eat him, Jackson says he was drooling over Stiles’ back and going on about his skin and blood and stuff when he left.”

“What?”

Derek is staring ahead into the distance, eyes seeing nothing.

“I said, Harris wanted to check out Stiles’ back, like, the skin on his back or something, gosh, just saying this makes my stomach curl…”

“He’s not going to eat Stiles,” Derek says. His heart is racing now. “He is going to mate with him.”

Erica’s end goes dead silent, just when the room around Derek erupts in cheers and applause. He spins around – fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

The guest they’ve been waiting for – and the reason why Derek is even here, at the Beacon Hills Community Center, together with the sheriff, the chief of police, the mayor, Dr. Calvin, Alan Deaton, Mrs. Allen and literally every other important person of this town – has arrived.

He’s here when Derek was so sure – so sure he still had an hour.

All he needs is an hour.

“Erica, the president is here, I can’t-,” saying this causes him almost physical pain, “I can’t leave. You have to hurry. You have to – _fuck_ , I gotta go,” and he hangs up, quickly straightens his back and puts on a neutral expression.

“Mr. Hale – I’m sorry, _Alpha_ ,” the man says with a friendly smile. “I apologize, I am still not very firm in these categories.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Derek says and takes the hand the young man is extending, “…Mister President. Please, after you.”

Derek follows him into the conference room, nodding at the journalists and ignoring the cameras.

He looks the way he always does, but on the inside – if asked, he couldn’t tell whether he’s still the same or not.

He has never felt like this before.

There is a law in the Constitution of the Free Town of Beacon Hills that says that the needs of the Alpha’s people always come first. An amendment to this article states that the Alpha may, however, neglect or renounce his or her civic duties in one instance only: if his or her mate is in distress. To force the Alpha to disregard this most primal of all instincts was ruled inhuman and cruel in 1984, Argent vs. the People of Beacon Hills.

Derek takes his seat to the right of the President of the United States of America in this important briefing about the newly awakened Spark and the future of the world, while leaving his betas to deal with said Spark in distress because he must.

Because Stiles is not his mate.

What never occurred to Derek before is that Stiles might become someone else’s.

 

 

 

 

Derek hangs up just when Erica says, “The president? … as in… of the _United States_?”

But then the line has already gone dead and Erica is staring at her pack mate, a puzzled expression on her face.

“What are you going on about? What did Derek say? It was kinda hard to hear over this _moron’s_ loud breathing,” Isaac is giving Jackson a venomous glance who immediately responds likewise. “What now, is he coming?”

“I… I don’t think so..,” Erica says slowly. Then, as the truth of her own words dawns on her, “We will have to deal with it ourselves.”

She sounds frightened as she says this.

“We’ll have to get Stiles out of there on our own.”

 

 

 

 

Stiles finds himself on the floor without knowing how he even got there and, quite frankly, this is starting to annoy him.

Adrian Harris is towering over him, breathing heavily.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Language, Mr. Stilinski!”

Harris raises his right arm – and Stiles quickly closes his eyes, thinking, _Holy shit, this is it… this is how I die._

Devoured by his biology teacher.

At least, this is an end he would never, not in a thousand lifetimes, have seen coming.

He waits, his entire body rigid, fingers trembling.

And waits.

And waits.

Huh?

And nothing happens.

He opens his eyes again when something touches his lips.

“What the --- _ew, stop that!_ ”

Harris is holding a Q-tip, a comically large one, and he is evidently attempting to stick it into Stiles’ mouth. At least, judging from the fact that he stabs it at Stiles’ closed lips several times.

“What’s with that thing in my face?!”

“Hold still, Mr. Stilinski, it’s in the interest of science.”

He feels like he heard that before – or something along those lines.

“Why would cotton in my mouth be good for science,” Stiles says through the fabric of his sweater. He is crawling backwards, away from Harris, covering his mouth with his arm.

“Have you never been to the doctor’s, Mr. Stilinski?” There’s an eerie reflection of light from his glasses as he says this. “Your spit is invaluable.”

“What?” Stiles says, frowning. His hands are still trembling. He is not sure he heard correctly.

“I need your spit.”

“What? No!” Stiles says, but Harris is already approaching again. “Get off me! What the hell would you need my spit for?!”

“To examine it and crack the code.”

“What code?”

“The code of _you_! What makes a Spark a Spark. So hold still.”

“No!” Stiles says again, jerking his head away and almost getting a Q-tip jabbed into his right eyeball.

“Okay,” Harris is saying. He straightens his back. “Okay, I – I see… I understand, I – shouldn’t have – I apologize, Mr… _Stilinski_ , it’s just – the _scientist_ in me…”

_No, it’s because you’re a creep!_ , Stiles is thinking furiously, but he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are on his bag that is sitting on the floor next to Harris’ desk. If he could just grab it and run. Then he’d be out of here in a second. Or half a minute since he’s not that fast because, fuck his life, he cannot _control_ his spark like that.

Harris has walked over to his desk. He deposits the Q-tip on it, then, with his back to Stiles, takes a deep breath.

Then, all of a sudden, he moves really fast: he pivots on his heel and Stiles’ heart almost stops.

Curse that guy’s ridiculous wendigo speed.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for the second time in five minutes and when he opens them again, he is blinking at a newspaper that Harris is waving in his face. It’s _The Beacon_ from this morning and Stiles is looking, once again, at the photo of himself.

“What…” he starts, absolutely puzzled.

“Then give me an autograph,” Harris says and he holds a pen up to his face, next to the paper.

“ _What?!_ ”

“Sign – _here_ -” Harris says, tapping the photo of Stiles with the pen, but before Stiles can finish his thought of _This is insane, this guy is insane, this town is insane, everyone’s insane_ , the door flies open.

This time both Stiles and Harris jump.

 

 

 

Stiles doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not _this_.

Certainly not the blond woman in her combat boots, grenade launcher resting on her shoulder.

Harris straightens his back and frowns at Kate Argent who is standing in the open door, a predatory grin on her face.

“You are not allowed in here,” he says, “No one is to enter school premises, explicit order by the principal. Who are you?”

“Oh, shut up, Harris, you moron,” Kate says with a roll of the eyes as if she’s bored. Then she steps into the office – and knocks out Harris who is furiously approaching her with a solid punch in the temple. Harris collapses next to his desk and Stiles has to blink several times before the scene makes even remote sense to him.

“I hate teachers,” Kate comments, then she steps over Harris’ feet, gaze transfixed on Stiles.

“… thus we meet again.”

“What do you want from me?” Stiles immediately says.

Kate is squatting in from of him now leaning on her grenade launcher as if it were a walking stick.

Then her hand is in Stiles’ shirt and Stiles flinches, eyes wide in shock.

“What the hell?! What is it with everyone’s obsession over my fucking back?!”

Kate is smiling cryptically. She has already withdrawn her hand again.

“So… not the Alpha’s mate yet. I thought so.”

“What? What the fuck are you going on about?!”

“But Derek did scratch you…,” she continues, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. The smirk has vanished from her lips and she is just staring at Stiles with wide eyes. Even though he knows this is Allison’s aunt, he can’t make out even the faintest trace of a similarity in her features.

“So… he is monitoring you – anchoring you. So… he plans on taking you as his mate… soon?”

“What?” Stiles repeats angrily, crawling a few feet back and away from Kate. The door to Harris’ office is wide open, but there seems to be no one out in the hallway, or at all in hearing range. Of course not.

Just his luck.

“Is Derek planning on taking you as his mate, little bird?”

Little bird?

What the…

“What did he say – did he say anything?”

“Why is everyone assuming that? Besides, this is none of your fucking business. You blew up his kitchen!”

A dreamy smile appears on Kate’s face. She lets out a small chuckle that sounds almost – bashful. Stiles has no idea what the fuck is happening.

“This is between Derek and me,” she says, eyes downcast. “It’s a little game we have… you wouldn’t understand.”

Stiles has literally nothing to say to that. He is completely speechless.

This woman is clearly insane.

“And then you come along,” she suddenly says sharply, girlish smile vanished from her lips. “And ruin everything.”

All of a sudden, she stands, grenade launcher pointing right at Stiles’ face. He stares up at the grenade cartridge that is being waved in his face and swallows.

“I guess we’ll have to see who’s worth having him. The Spark – or the Jaguar…”

“The what?” he says despite himself.

Kate takes something out of the pocket of her leather jacket and throws it at Stiles’ face and for an insane moment he thinks it’s another one of Gerard Argent’s stupid pamphlets.

Then, however, straightening it out with trembling fingers – Kate Argent is still pointing her weapon at him – he gets a better look at it. It’s a single sheet of thin, dark red wax paper, almost like candy wrapping, and sprawled over it in black and barely discernible letters is the word –

“Invitation,” Kate Argent purrs. “…to your final showdown, Spark. Meet me behind the gym at 2:30 p.m.”

She barks out a laugh – and then she’s gone.

 

 

 

When they burst into the office, Harris is still unconscious and Stiles is still staring down at Kate Argent’s ridiculous invitation to duel her.

“What the hell…” Erica is saying with a look at Harris’ unmoving body. Behind her, Isaac, Scott and, to Stiles’ utter surprise, Jackson, spill into the room.

“Stiles, what happened? Did you knock Harris out?” Scott says. He’s down on his knees in front of Stiles, anxiously searching his face for bruises or scratches.

“What’s he holding?” Isaac says and Stiles thinks that it’s the first time he heard Derek’s beta form a full sentence in his presence.

Erica steps over Harris’ legs with her five-inch-heels, but Scott is faster. He has snatched the paper out of Stiles’ hands and is reading it, eyes going wide.

“What does Allison’s aunt have to do with this? Wait – was she here?”

Scott looks over his shoulder, back at Erica.

“I thought she was in Mexico,” he says to her.

“Mexico? No, she was here, right here, waving a fucking bazooka in my fucking face,” Stiles says heatedly. Then he slams his hands over his face.

Fuck.

He feels like crying. The stress… this day was just too much.

“Hey, buddy…,” Scott says, giving Stiles’ shoulder a sympathetic squeeze.

“Mexico was the last we heard of her,” Erica starts slowly, hesitantly.

“Holy shit,” Isaac interrupts. Erica just handed him the invitation. “She’s going to kill you, man.”

He’s looking directly at Stiles.

“Bitch is going to kill you.”

“She’s not going to kill Stiles,” Erica says, frowning at her pack mate.

“Oh, hell yeah! Remember when-”

“Shut up, Isaac,” Erica hisses and Scott says, “She’s not going to harm you. We’ll take care of that.”

“Okay, just,” Stiles starts, “What the literal _hell_ is going on? Why does everyone know Kate? And what the hell would she want from me?”

“Allison’s aunt is kind of a… er… kind of a town curiosity,” Scott starts.

“You can say that again,” Isaac says, corners of his mouth turned down.

“She’s sort of – obsessed with Derek. Always has been,” Erica says with a sigh, “When he chose Isaac last year, she was sort of… uhm. Yeah, kinda – tried to kill him for a couple of weeks.”

“I hate that bitch,” Isaac says with bitterness.

“But then Derek put his foot down and the whole situation kinda dissolved when Gerard sent her to a convent in Mexico,” Erica quickly concludes at Stiles’ shocked expression.

“Convent,” Jackson snores, “probably turned it into her own personal cult…”

Stiles looks over to where he is standing by Harris’ unconscious body with surprise. Jackson meets his gaze, then quickly averts his eyes again.

“So everybody knows this – Kate woman. And why again is no one telling me important stuff like that?”

“Sorry, buddy… she’d been gone for almost a year, we kinda all – just forgot about her,” Scott says. Them, turning back over his shoulder at Erica, “Ha, remember that time when she blew up Derek’s Volkswagen?”

“He was livid,” Erica says with a grin. “He loved that car. Got the Camaro afterward, but I’m pretty sure he’s still crying over Suzie sometimes…”

“Suzie?” Stiles frowns up at her.

Erica’s grin widens.

“He loved that car,” she repeats.

Meanwhile, Stiles’ head is swimming. Derek had a Volkswagen named Suzie, Jackson apparently went to get help, Harris wants his autograph.

Oh, and, Derek has a psychopathic stalker who happens to be Allison’s aunt and who happens to be the principal’s daughter and who’d like to murder Stiles because, as a Spark, he is entitled to the Alpha’s presence. But she doesn’t ambush him in the hallway, no-hoo. She sends him a flowery invitation first, to strike him down behind the gym at 2:30 p.m., after precalculus.

Peachy.

That’s just – could happen anywhere.

Right?

But then, it doesn’t, it fucking doesn’t, only in Beacon fucking Hills.

 

 

 

 

Stiles is only feeling remotely calmer when he’s alone in the second floor bathroom thirty minutes later. He is sitting on the toilet lid, staring at his cellphone and contemplating what to do next.

Scott made it sound like he, Allison, Erica and Isaac would just knock Kate out or tie her up or something and Stiles wouldn’t even have to deal with her. Allison suggested telling her grandfather and then remembered that the place Kate had suggested for the duel was not on school grounds anymore, just barely so. Which is why, apparently, ‘behind the gym’ is where everything crazy happens.

Stiles is observing the display of his cellphone as if waiting for something to pop up. A message, maybe?

No, that’s stupid, why would he be waiting for a message? From whom? Besides, he’s still getting random numbers trying to contact him in regular intervals, so… no please, leave him the fuck alone.

It’s not like he’s waiting for Derek to message him, or anything.

Derek who didn’t even show his face and sent his betas instead.

Stiles throws his cellphone into his bag with an angry huff.

Kate Argent is so fucking wrong. Derek doesn’t care about Stiles one bit, the Alpha made that pretty clear and Stiles – Stiles has to fucking learn to nip his stupid crush in the bud.

He reaches out to unlock the bathroom stall door and pull it open, but then something catches his attention and he pauses, eyes wide in amazement.

Just like everything else around here, the bathrooms are brand-new, floor tiles and mirrors still missing, and the stalls, for some reason, have a weird, apple-green color now and they are still completely empty, no one drew or wrote on them yet, none of the vulgar artwork and words and bullshit sentences in a hundred high-school students’ chicken-scratch.

Except.

Except for this.

Right at the height of Stiles’ eyes, someone has sharpied the following on the door:

 

_what happened on the lacrosse field  ???_

Stiles’ eyes wander an inch downward from the awkward, small letters, to where someone, apparently, answered the question since the words etched into the stall are in a different handwriting:

 

_victories require casualties_

What is this supposed to mean?

What happened on the lacrosse field?

Everyone fucking saw what happened, so what was this person trying to say?

And what kind of Grindelwald-Nazi-bullshit is ‘victories require casualties’?

Stiles stares at the writing for a few moments longer, then he abruptly pulls the door open, shoulders his bag and marches out.

Contemplating the meaning of bathroom stall vandalism is a clear sign of him losing his nerves. Not that he never smeared anything on the wall himself anywhere, ha, no, Stiles is not a saint, _but_ –

The point is, it doesn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t, and that’s that.

 

 

 

“We’re just going to leave ten minutes early,” Scott is whispering. “Allison, Erica and Isaac are taking care of Kate.”

“Oh… good,” Stiles mouths and shrugs his shoulders. He is uncomfortably aware of the whole classroom listening in.

“We just have to,” Scott starts again, but he is interrupted by Jane Hinako.

“Mr. McCall – is there anything you would like to share on Gnomish poetry?” their English teacher says and Scott shuts his mouth and shakes his head.

“Good.” She holds up her book. It’s _Rhymes for Young Ghouls_ , a collection of modernist poetry by Gnomish artist and poet Jeb Farnaby. They’re really good, Stiles likes them a lot, but right now, poetry is literally the last thing on his mind.

“Mr. McCall, why don’t you read the last stanza on page 85 out to us.”

And Scott starts, “… _and we went on prowling the dark alleys, the ugly houses, burning the world with our laughter_ ,” while Stiles is staring down at his desk.

He’s not listening anymore because there, _right_ there on the brand-new desk of his brand-new chair, sharpied on the dark desk top in small-lettered chicken scratch, are the words,

_A Spark is A Spark is A Spark_ _∞_

Stiles is still staring down at them when the bell rings.

 

 

He’d really meant to silently vanish from school early, just as Scott had suggested, too.

No, really, it’s just – when Stiles steps out of the English classroom, for the first time that day, everyone’s eyes are not on him. People are sticking their heads together, whispering and, from the looks of it, reading something, and while Stiles can see Gerard Argent’s green pamphlets sticking out of this bag or that jacket pocket and out of trash cans on every corner, it looks like the students have already forgotten about them. And about him, too.

Wow, that was fast.

Stiles steps out into the hallway after Allison and Scott and literally no one notices. Jackson shoots him a quick gaze and then marches off, shaking his head for whatever reason.

And, okay, Stiles knows he should enjoy it, and not question the sudden silence, the sudden calm. Isn’t that what he’d been craving all day?

But then he catches a patch of blood red something being passed around in a group of girls right next to him and, without thinking, he steps into the circle.

“What – the hell?”

He snatches the paper out of a senior’s hands who looks annoyed for a second and then realizes who Stiles is – and her face falls and freezes in the expression of shock and awe Stiles is so familiar with by now. The girls to his left and right shy away from him as if he were radiating toxic vapor off his skin or something.

Stiles snorts out an annoyed sigh.

“Where did you get this?” he demands, holding up Kate Argent’s declaration to duel the young Spark of Beacon Hills. It’s not the one Kate gave him personally an hour ago because that one is in a trashcan in Harris’ office, ripped up into tiny little shreds.

Stiles knows because he distinctly remembers Erica doing it, the red of her nails bleeding into the color of the paper while she was tearing it up meticulously so no one would be able to make out what it said anymore.

Well, they evidently underestimated Kate Argent.

“Where did you get this?” Stiles repeats, raising his eyebrows at the dark-haired girl in front of him. He feels like he’s completely run out of patience for the day.

“I… I,” she finally manages to articulate, voice hoarse, and almost scared out of her mind, Stiles can tell from the way her heart is hammering away in her chest, “I just – picked it up. From… from the floor.”

And she points a shaking finger down to her Vans, to where they are standing on what looks like at least a dozen more of Kate’s invitations.

Stiles’ jaw drops.

“Oh…oh,” Allison is whispering next to him. “Damn you, aunt Kate…”

And for the first time Stiles lifts his gaze and lets it trail down the hallway, to the students who are gradually starting to notice that the Spark is present.

And to the red flyers, littering the hallway like rose petals, inviting the whole school to Kate Argent’s duel with Stiles Stilinski.

 

 

 

 

“Stiles, are you sure you want to do this?”

They’re in the gym and Stiles is looking up and down the walls, scanning the sports appliances stored at the back of the room, the basketballs and lacrosse sticks and yoga mats and stacks of weights, 2.5 and 5 and 10 lbs.

They skipped math because Stiles suddenly decided that he would no longer be afraid.

He hates the feeling. It’s like his life, all the energy he has, is being drained out of him and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Yes,” he says emphatically. “Allison, please – just show me.”

She exchanges a look with Scott.

“I… don’t know. Kate is – she’s not…” she tries, then stops. Sighs, and starts again. “She might actually – really hurt you.”

“I’m a Spark,” Stiles points out even though he deflates a little at Allison’s words.

The thing is this.

He knows, okay?

He knows he’s weak and defenseless, has known this all his life, even before he came to this town of insanely strong werewolves and wendigos and banshees and whatever else is out there. Crazy blond women who practice martial arts and are obsessed with the Alpha.

His mind is telling him that no way he could do anything, anything at all, against Kate Argent.

But there is also a defiant little voice in his head, asking him whether he’s going to bail, whether he’s going to run like a chicken. Whether _The Beacon_ would run headlines about Stiles’ character tomorrow, about how he is supposed to be the most powerful magical creature alive, but then he runs from a simple fight.

In a regular town with regular people, everyone would probably nod his head at a decision to not engage in something like this. But here, in Beacon Hills?

“She won’t stop, right?” Stiles turns to Allison.

“Probably not,” she says with a shake of her head and a pitiful glance at Stiles.

“Okay, then – tell me what Anything Goes is all about.”

“Are you sure…,” Allison starts again, but this time, Scott intervenes.

“Allison, Stiles is a Spark – he is _the_ Spark. We haven’t seen him use his power to fight yet, but – I think he can handle it.”

Stiles looks at his best friend with surprise and Scott gives him an encouraging smile. A warm, fuzzy feeling pools in Stiles’ chest. Yes, this is what he needed. Someone who believes in him.

Who knows that Stiles can decide not to be scared, even if he still is, and change things.

“Okay,” Allison says. She makes a large gesture at the wall in general. “First, you would choose your weapon. Mine is the crossbow. But you already knew that.”

Then, because Stiles is eyeing the rack with the lacrosse sticks, “Try thinking out of the box. That’s the first rule of Anything Goes. Try to become unpredictable.”

“So anything?” Stiles lets his gaze wander through the gym, a frown on his face.

“Anything, Stiles. It’s literally in the name,” Scott says, a grin on his lips. He’s fingering the purple mohawk of the gorilla on his ugly mustard colored sweater and Allison nods, “Anything.”

“What about this door knob?” Stiles says and holds up a round metal knob that someone, for whatever reason, left on one of the shelves with the basketballs. Probably because, like the rest of the school, the gym is still under construction. There is no light in here yet, either, and they have to make do with what little comes in through a row of tiny windows below the roof.

Allison gives him one of her stunning smiles.

“Anything. Makwa Argent’s weapon of choice was a lead duck. She was really good with it, too. It’s why the prize for the Beacon Hills lacrosse cup is the lead-duck-cup. It’s in her honor.”

“Makwa Argent, the famous philosopher and founder of Anything Goes martial arts?”

The transgender woman is a legend in Beacon Hills. She lived here more than five centuries ago. Stiles read everything about her in his History of the Supernatural textbook.

“She wasn’t so much the founder as the one who spread the discipline all over the hemisphere. And perfected it, you know? But there are stories in our canon that suggest that Anything Goes is really much older…”

Stiles has started walking down the rows of sports equipment, eyeing Pezzi balls and yoga mats and hula hoops, shaking his head again and again.

“Hey, what about... this?”

He picked up an aluminum bat from a stack in the corner and is weighing it in his hand.

He always loved baseball, but never made any of the school teams. Lacrosse was literally the only kind of sport he didn’t completely suck at. Not that he lacked the talent or anything, no, but all the popular kids always wanted to play baseball, so there had never been room for Stiles. The lacrosse team had been the only one that still lacked players, so – lacrosse it was.

“A baseball bat,” Allison states, her tone perfectly neutral.

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a grin, twirling the bat a few times with his right hand. “This one.”

Choosing a baseball bat would be like a fuck you to every single time someone told him he was good but not good enough to make the team, and to every single person who’d ever laughed at him for trying.

Scott claps his hands and Allison nods at him.

“Okay. So the next thing you do is,” she picks up a bat herself and ducks down to show him, “You take a position – like _this_ – and when you’re ready to attack – you hit her.”

Stiles blinks.                                                        

“What?”

“Pretty straightforward, mh?” Scott says.

“I – just hit her? That’s the secret? That’s Anything Goes martial arts?”

“Pretty much,” Allison says apologetically, “Well, okay, the secret isn’t really in the technique or anything. You have to develop your own way, you know? So that’s nothing anyone can teach you, but – it’s in the mindset. In knowing it’s possible. Yes?”

Stiles doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he understands.

“And there are – figures,” Allison continues, “Positions that help you focus and can act as a guideline for your choreography. But then you always have to break out of the familiar patterns again and become-”

“-unpredictable,” Stiles says and Allison nods.

“Unpredictable. Or it wouldn’t be Anything Goes. And I’ve got to warn you – Kate is a master. She’s better than my dad and almost better than Gerard.”

Allison’s grandfather.

Well, that’s encouraging.

“So there are no rules and you can do anything,” Stiles recaps, “but Kate is better at it than most people are?”

Another nod.

“So how would you know she’s even doing Anything Goes and not just,” Stiles looks down at the bat, “…fidgeting around with a stick. Or – a bazooka. I mean… she has a huge-ass weapon, of course she’d be stronger than your dad.”

“My dad also uses a firearm,” Allison says. “And that’s not what it’s about. It’s – it’s difficult to describe. Okay, let me just quickly show you one move.”

Before Stiles can even react, Allison lets the bat in her hand cut through the air. She hits Stiles in the hollow of his left knee and he immediately collapses, hitting the concrete hard.

“Sorry,” Allison says, “That’s the ‘Chimpanzee.’ And what Kate did to Harris, the punch in the temple she gave him – well, or throat – and that knocked him out for at least an hour, that one’s called ‘The Good Wife in Distress.’”

Stiles is staring up at her, rubbing his throbbing knee.

Allison can’t be serious.

This must all be a big joke.

He’s still considering running. Any sane person would run.

The things is, he’s not sure whether he still counts among them, the regular, rational people, or whether he ever really did before.

 

 

 

 

It’s not like Stiles doesn’t have a choice because he does, he really does, and when he’s rounding the gym with Scott and Allison by his side half an hour later and he’s feeling weak in the knees – not just because of Allison’s Chimpanzee – he still feels like running and hiding, yeah.

It’s 2:25 p.m.

There’s still be time for him to just vanish, let Scott and Allison deal with it.

A huge crowd has gathered in the little space there is behind the gym to watch. The gym is attached to the school, but really a small building of its own with only one story, and Stiles can even see people sitting on the low roof.

Just like he sometimes does in the morning when Derek is fighting the betas of Beacon Hills High, Danny Mahealani is encouraging students to place their bets, and from what Stiles can hear, and sense, there are overwhelming odds in his favor and against Kate Argent.

He swallows, thinking that he might yet run.

Or, you know.

Throw up.

They all seem to believe he’s this powerful being that no one can compete with.

Why you ask?

Because he _fucking should be_.

Because he – he _is_.

But – he just doesn’t know _how to_. He feels like an impostor, a squib, and it’s only a matter of time until they all find out and who knows what headlines _The Beacon_ will run then.

All of a sudden, Lydia Martin is in front of him, poking her finger into Stiles’ chest. Stiles almost drops his bat in surprise which is clearly not a good sign.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hisses.

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but Lydia shoots him a toxic glare and says, “You’re _not_ going to duel Kate Argent, are you insane? You’re going to get yourself _killed_.”

Stiles’ expression darkens.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he says, feeling stupid because this is literally the thing anyone says who has no excuses whatsoever for the stupid shit they’re about to do.

“ _Fine_ ,” Lydia whisper-hisses because people are starting to notice that the Spark has arrived and they’re trying to pick up on what he’s talking about with Lydia Martin.

“Go and get your neck broken. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t if I actually get my neck broken!” Stiles yells after her with a weak laugh that cannot completely stifle the nauseating fear that is coiling and uncoiling in his gut like a snake. He holds onto his baseball bat like it’s a lifeline.

Stiles takes a step in the direction of the crowd, then another – and is stopped again, this time by a girl stepping in his way. She’s human, a dark-haired senior whose heart rate goes crazy the moment she meets his gaze. She is clutching something that looks a lot like another courting gift and Stiles senses that she had this whole speech prepared, but, suddenly, her mind is a blank. She bats her lashes and opens and closes her mouth and Stiles’ heart aches for her – he knows she’ll be mortified as soon as she snaps out of her shock.

Before the girl gets the chance though, she is joined by others. People have started moving in Stiles’ direction and they’re looking at him and addressing him and thinking about him and reaching out to him.

When someone touches his back, Stiles’ brain finally catches up and he feels a sudden surge of panic at the realization that they are going to crush him.

A hundred different voices are saying, “Spark! Spark! Spark! Spark!” and Stiles is being pushed around, shoved to the left and right. He’s hugging his bat and they’re not stopping and he’s going to scream, oh God, they’re going to kill him, they’re going to tear him to shreds, it’s going to be like Suskind’s _Perfume_ –

Then someone says his name, “Stiles,” just this one thing and it’s the most soothing thing Stiles has ever heard and he knows.

It’s so clear now.

They can’t hurt him, they can’t crush him.

He’s the Spark.

He holds out his bat – suddenly, there is no one in front of him anymore, the students have receded like a wave of bodies and they’re all staring at him, open-mouthed and trembling.

He knows his eyes are glowing. He meets them, one after the other and he’s not scared anymore.

Someone – the same voice and now he knows who it is, it’s Scott, Scott’s voice – is saying, “You’re the man, Stiles.”

Scott is right behind him. He has his hand in the small of Stiles’ back and Stiles turns his head to meet his best friend’s eyes.

It’s funny though, he already knew what he’d be seeing. When their eyes lock, his purple spark meets the red flare in Scott’s eyes. It’s just for a moment, the tiniest flicker for no one but Stiles to see, but it’s enough.

Stiles remembers.

He’d forgotten, but now he remembers. The last time he was gone, _beyond_ , he was able to keep his balance because Scott was there, too. Because Scott is his anchor – his second anchor. It’s Derek and Scott. He doesn’t have the faintest clue how this computes, but Stiles is already halfway gone again, so he knows it just does.

“Cut the crap out!” someone is screeching and of course it’s Kate.

Stiles proceeds through the sea of students parting left and right to make way for him, then he walks over to where Kate is waiting for him in the middle of an empty space just wide enough to make a fight possible.

“A baseball bat – really?” Kate says, but it sounds unsure, her voice breaking on the words. She doesn’t meet his eyes and Stiles knows why, of course.

Because right now, he knows _everything_.

He can see the gears in Kate’s head turning and, oh, she’s so smart, but she’s also, like everyone else behind the gym, locked in this dimension so the number of her possible moves is limited.

“I’m not scared of you,” she says, louder now, even though Stiles knows that she is. “Glow your eyes at me all you want. YAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

And she attacks.

 

 

 

 

When Kate Argent hurls herself at Stiles, Scott is almost impressed by her courage.

The rest of them – all of them, in fact, the whole crowd behind the gym – have frozen, they’re not even following the fight, they’re just completely paralyzed. Students, the occasional teacher and at least a dozen reporters, all of them.

Cameras and cellphones dangling in their hands, completely forgotten.

Scott gets it, too, of course.

It’s – he can’t put words to it. It’s just that when Stiles aura unfolds around him, everything is changed. Scott is mesmerized by the purple glow – he can feel it, practically see it, even though Stiles has his back toward him. His best friend is waiting for Kate to attack and it’s odd, it’s almost like Scott can see it all in slow motion.

When he felt Stiles panicking earlier he reached out to him – it’s what any friend would have done, really, nothing special. But Scott also knew his touch would help Stiles, that he could take his fear away.

He doesn’t know why and how he knew – he just did.

And then, when Stiles turned around and Scott saw his eyes – he saw something in there. Could feel himself responding and it made him – it made him feel _powerful_.

Like he could take on the whole world.

But there is no time to think about it now. Scott takes Allison’s hand because she is shaking – he doesn’t have to look to know that her cheeks are wet – and he focuses all his senses on Stiles. It’s almost like he can help him, and he is breathing in and out regularly, as if his own calmness could soothe his best friend – as if Scott is seeing clearly what needs to be done and that’s why the Spark can see it, too.

_Dive_ , Scott thinks and Stiles ducks down and rolls away from Kate’s first punch.

Allison’s aunt is using her grenade launcher like a club and when it misses Stiles and instead hits the dust she whirls around, blinking wildly.

The Spark is at the other end of the small arena, smiling dreamily at her.

Oh, Kate is terrified.

Scott can smell it and he can practically see her trembling. She seems to gradually realized what she has gotten herself into, but then, incredibly, she shrugs her shoulders as if to rid herself of her own fear, lifts her weapon into the air and attacks again, but of course all her efforts are futile. She can’t touch the Spark, can’t even reach him.

_Good_ , Scott is thinking, _good. Stay with me, Stiles. Stay here. You’re doing a great job._

Stiles’ whole body is now glowing faintly; it looks as if he’s about to vibrate into a different dimension.

Beads of sweat are gathering on Scott’s forehead. Stiles is pulling at him and he’s growing stronger and stronger by the second. It’s like he’s dangling from a roof and Scott is clutching his hand and trying to pull him back up, reel him back in, but Stiles is growing heavier and heavier and his fingers are slowly slipping out of Scott’s hand, one after the other.

“Scott,” Allison whispers, her voice completely wrecked. She sounds like she almost can’t deal with what she’s feeling right now.

“ _Gnnn_ ,” is all Scott can respond. He’s shaking and sweating, but he feels like it’s no use, he can’t go on for much longer. Dust is mounting around Stiles’ feet in small spirals. The ground is already tilting beneath their feet. No one is speaking, even Kate is rooted in place, staring at Stiles with wide eyes. All Scott can hear from the crowd are terrified gasps and then –

Then Derek arrives.

Scott knows even before he sees him, from the way the pull he’s been feeling gets so much lighter all of a sudden and it’s like Scott can breathe again, and he does. He falls to his knees, and then he’s on all fours, panting.

When he lifts his head, he can see the Alpha standing behind Stiles, at the other end of the circle. He has pushed his way through the crowd, all the way to the front row without people even realizing that the Alpha is here, and he flicks his deep red eyes from Stiles over to where Scott is kneeling next to Allison and it’s right then – they lock eyes and it’s like they see each other for the first time. Derek’s eyes widen, but then Kate is moving again.

The ground stopped vibrating.

It’s over.

Stiles is here again.

The glow in his eyes is gone.

What the….

Scott doesn’t understand – not rationally, but instinctively he knows that they did it. He and Derek did it together.

“ _Kate, stop!_ ” Derek growls, but Kate who is already busy hacking at Stiles’ head with her grenade launcher again only lets out a maniacal cackle.

“The Alpha has come to watch,” she forces out, her chest heaving. Stiles keeps evading her blows. He has this concentrated look on his face, like he’s doing his math homework.

“Cut it out!” Derek shouts again, “Kate! Stiles! Stop this right now before someone gets hurt!”

“Don’t worry about me, beloved,” Kate says and she lifts her massive weapon again. “When the Spark is defeated, we can finally have our ceremony!”

Scott can feel Stiles’ confusion.

_Duck_ , he thinks, _Come on, Stiles, don’t let her trap you, don’t listen! Faster – be faster!_

Stiles almost doesn’t make it. His superhuman speed seems almost entirely gone. Kate’s heavy weapon grazes his shoulder and Stiles’ lets out a pained yelp.

Oh, no.

“That’s right!” Kate shouts who immediately caught on to Stiles’ momentary slip in focus, “The Alpha – is my fiancé!”

 

 

 

 

Stiles is panting, the baseball bat hanging loosely in his hand. He hasn’t even used it yet, he was too focused on moving out of Kate’s reach and staying here, staying human.

He thinks he misheard – it almost sounded like Kate just called Derek her fiancé.

Of course she’s trying to confuse him to finally land a blow – and Stiles doesn’t even know why.

“Why are trying to hurt me?” he says, holding his shoulder.

Kate has stopped. She shakes her left hand that is clutching the weapon, tilts her head to the left and right as if to relax her neck and then she puts on one of her mean smirks.

“Oh, I’m not trying to hurt you – I’m trying to _kill_ you!”

“Wh-”

“Why?” Kate lifts her eyebrows at him. Then she nods at something behind Stiles and Stiles turns around and looks, just for a second.

Derek is there, right behind him, and really, in the back of his mind, Stiles already knew. He knows exactly where Scott is – and he knows exactly where Derek is, as if the two of them were holding him on strings, attached to this reality.

His two anchors.

“Only the strongest woman is good enough for the Alpha,” Kate says with a shark-like grin. “And I’m the strongest of them all.”

Stiles can’t help it. He’s still trying to catch his breath, but he can’t help but blink at the blond woman in confusion.

“What?”

“Oh, Stiles, Stiles… you know so little about our history… There is an old law in the Constitution of the Free Town of Beacon Hills that says that the Alpha’s mate is the one-”

“…‘out of all of them who is still standing,’ or something like that?” Stiles quotes, finishing her sentences. He read about that. “So? That law is ancient.”

It was listed as no longer in use in his History of the Supernatural textbook which is why Stiles didn’t waste a second thought on it.

“So?” Kate says with a light sing-song voice. “So this law was never formally abrogated and is thus, technically, still in effect. And it means two things. First, that the Alpha cannot intervene when two potential mates fight over him – that’s why he’s just standing there now, perfectly useless.”

Kate takes a moment to sneer at Derek and Stiles can feel the Alpha clench his fists and bare his fangs at her.

He’s so angry.

But he says nothing.

So it must be true.

“…and, second,” Kate continues, her eyes on Stiles again, “That whoever defeats all contestants shall have the Alpha’s hand as a reward. Because, you see my little spark…”

She is slowly drawing closer and closer to him like a lion circling its prey.

“…historically, the Alpha deserves the strongest mate. And that has always been – _me_.”

She hauls her weapon up into the air again like a sword.

“You will _not_ take him from me!”

Stiles knew it.

Kate Argent is crazy.

It’s literally what Allison said, too. She said her aunt was insane, and there is the evidence, right there in front of his eyes.

And there he really thought Kate wanted his head as a trophy or something.

“I don’t want to take him from you,” he shouts, “You can have him!”

Derek doesn’t want him anyway and it’s probably Stiles’ hurt pride that makes him add, “You two seem like a perfect match, I wouldn’t want to interfere.”

He can feel Derek behind him cringe, but he doesn’t turn around. Kate is stampeding in his direction again, ready to crush his skull with her stupid grenade launcher. The crowd goes ‘ _uuuh!_ ’ and ‘ _aaaah!_ ’ when Stiles quickly lifts his bat – and blocks Kate’s attack as if it were nothing.

The aluminum baseball bat simply withstands Kate’s massive weapon and Kate looks up at it, shocked. A purple glow is surrounding it.

A smirk ghosts over Stiles’ face.

“Then give up,” Kate grits out. She’s afraid.

She’s terrified because Stiles’ eyes are glowing again and this time, it’s almost like he can simply tap into his power.

“No way,” he says almost thoughtfully.

“But you said you don’t want him!”

“I don’t.”

“Then give – up!”

She aims for his shin – presumably in an attempt to do a reverse-Chimpanzee or something – but her combat boot only hits air.

Stiles’ grin widens.

“No,” he simply says.

Then he lifts the bat and brings it down on the grenade launcher before Kate can even do as much as blink.

He’s too fast for her.

Stiles is in the mood for a little trick, too. He smiles, then lets his eyes glow a little more until he can see it – the fissure in the timespace-continuum.

It’s like a disturbance in the air, like a flicker, right there in front of him.

Stiles dips his bat into it so fast no one could even sense the movement – and then he pulls.

The whole world jumps a feet toward him, then slams to a sudden stop – and Stiles steps through. Then he unhooks his bat and the world flies back into place.

Kate is on the ground, her grenade launcher dented as if an elephant stepped on it and Stiles?

He’s on the roof of the gym, looking down at her.

A smirk on his face.

The students almost tumble off the roof, they’re so shocked to find the Spark behind them and exuding sheer and unadulterated power. The air is charged with it, it’s so dense they can almost hear it buzzing and sizzling right beyond this dimension.

Kate is turning her head to the left and right, and only spots Stiles when her eyes follow Derek’s who is looking up to the roof.

Stiles shoulders the baseball bat and puts his free hand into the pocket of his jeans.

“So… you were saying?”

“You’re cheating,” Kate growls and Stiles throws his head back and lets out a loud laugh.

“Anything goes,” he says with a roguish grin and Kate clenches her fists.

Stiles slowly lifts the bat from his right shoulder and twirls it for a few seconds, watching it spin through the air. Then he fixates his gaze on Kate and a heartbeat later, he is behind her.

Rather than dashing her head in with his baseball bat – that would be a little extreme, really – he elbows her in the back and sends Kate flying into the dirt.

Then he steps back, whistling a cheerful tune. It’s not for Kate, but for the trees and grass and birds around him.

He feels good like this.

Not anxious, not afraid. At peace with himself and the world around him.

Meanwhile, Kate picks herself up and dusts herself off. She spits out a mouthful of dirt and then she’s just standing there for a while panting heavily.

Stiles is waiting patiently.

He has all the time.

Literally.

Finally, Kate straightens her back, lifts her eyes up to the sky, then down to the ground again.

“This is it. I have no choice,” she says in a grave tone. “I have to do it, even though I swore to myself, I never would…”

Kate takes in a deep, long breath, then she fixes her eyes on Stiles, her expression dark and determined.

Then she slowly ducks down and snarls, “- - the Argent-school of Anything Goes, FINAL ATTACK!!”

Stiles can hear Allison, all the way over there in the crowd, say, “Uh-oh” and then Kate is already coming at him. Something about her feels different – Stiles can’t put his finger to it, and there’s no time to, anyway – but he is ready, of course he is and he lets his bat fly through the air, and when he brings it down he hits –

Nothing.

Absolutely zero.

He blinks, lowers his bat and turns about him until he catches Kate’s blond head of hair disappearing over a fence in the distance. A long line of hysterical laughter is blowing in the wind for a few seconds and then it’s gone.

Stiles can hear Scott say, “That’s it? That’s the Final Attack of the Argent-School of Anything Goes?”

“Mh, yeah.” Allison sounds embarrassed. “It’s a complicated figure based on movement and contemplation.”

“So in other words,” Danny Mahealani says, “Run and hide until you can come up with something better. Ha.”

“It’s very efficient in hand-to-hand-combat and prevents hitting a stalemate,” Allison says stubbornly.

“And I believe you,” Danny says and Stiles cannot tell whether he’s making fun of her or not.

“Okay, now, enough is enough!” Derek is considering the crowd around him with blood-red Alpha eyes, his aura growing more and more powerful by the second.

“Go home,” he snarls, dropping his fangs, “ _All of you!_ ”

That did it.

The students and teachers, reporters and construction workers start as if Derek just woke them from a collective trance and they scurry away in all directions. Stiles can sense a turmoil of feelings, fear and marvel, agitation and exhaustion and, most of all, utter confusion.

“Dude, that was awesome!” Scott slaps Stiles’ shoulders, beaming at him. “Holy shit, when your _eyes_ were – and then you were up _there_ and – dude, how the hell did you do that?!”

Stiles is frowning. He turns to Allison.

“What I’d like to know is how did _she_ do that?” he says, and when Allison just blinks at him, a puzzled expression on her face, “Kate. I should have foreseen what she was planning, but for a moment I really thought she was coming at me and then she was just – gone.”

Okay, he didn’t focus as much as he could have, yes, but – still. He was in Spark mode. It should not have happened.

Allison who is wiping at her eyes, mutters, “Mh, I told you she’s a master – she can veil her intentions completely up to the last moment, and then it’s usually too late.”

“Huh… I see,” Stiles says, lips pulling into a crooked grin. “But that only works once.”

“With you, yeah,” Allison says, “Probably.”

She sniffles.

“Sorry, I,” wiping at her eyes some more, angrily, “Sorry.” Too moved to articulate what she’s thinking, but Stiles understands anyway and he smiles at her.

“What on Earth were you thinking?!”

Derek is marching toward them. Stiles can see the red color in his eyes glow once and then vanish and then it’s just Derek who’s standing in front of him, so angry that he’s almost shaking.

“I leave for a day – _half_ a day to deal with some business and you just – go out and start a fight with Kate Argent!”

“Start a fight?” Stiles inhales angrily. “She started a fight with me!” He points at a few scrunched up sheets of red paper on the ground. “She distributed these all over school and I’m just so fucking tired of running away all the time!”

They stare at each other and then Stiles says, even though he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s just so angry at the way Derek is treating him, angry and – hurt, “Maybe you should keep your fiancée in check, and then things like that wouldn’t happen.”

“She’s _not_ my fiancée,” Derek growls, “And even if she were, Kate Argent is her own person. I can’t lock her up!”

“Yeah, well, maybe someone really should, you know, maybe you should consider it,” Stiles says, just so Derek wouldn’t have the last word. “Bitch is insane.”

“She kinda is,” Allison mutters, staring down at her sneakers, then slaps her hand over her mouth to shut herself up.

“Besides,” Stiles pipes up again, “I was fine – you saw it. Everything was…,” and then he trails off, remembering something.

A little less angry, he turns to Scott.

“I think – you’re my anchor.”

“Huh?” Scott laughs. “What are you talking about? I mean, yeah, I kinda felt this – connection, but… how would I have-”

“You’re an alpha,” Derek grits out and it sounds like he is forcing himself to say the words.

“What?”

Now Scott is really laughing.

“Dude, are you alright? Last time I checked I did not defeat you and take your power.”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek says, a dark expression on his face, “And you don’t have to defeat an Alpha to become an Alpha.”

Stiles opens his mouth to spit out a waterfall of questions mixed in with angry remarks on how _no one_ is telling him _anything_ and, could his textbooks be any more inaccurate?, but Lydia interrupts him.

Apparently, she’d been waiting for Allison by the gym, leaning her back against the wall already smeared with graffiti even though it’s barely three days old, and Stiles gets the feeling that she was meant to catch up with her best friend and apologize.

“Scott, you’re a True Alpha,” she is saying now while carefully stepping over grass and gravel in her heels.

“True Alpha?” Allison repeats with a frown. “What’s a True Alpha?”

“Wait, that,” Stiles says, “But – but that’s a myth!”

It must be true though.

His thoughts are going a mile a minute.

That explains everything.

“What?” Scott says with a laugh. “Can someone explain to me what-”

“I didn’t really-,” Stiles interrupts him, “But it _must_ be, Lydia is right, that’s the solution! Listen, Scott.” And he lifts his eyes to meet his best friend’s gaze. Derek is just standing there, arms crossed in front of his chest, evidently not eager in the least to contribute to the conversation.

“One of Deaton’s books had this,” how should he explain it? It was a doodle of a stick figure with two purple circles in its face, its fishing rod hooked in another stick figures’ heart, and Stiles is only starting to get what it means.

“The point is,” he says, simply jumping over the explanation, “It gave me the impression that Sparks can – can _pull_ up hidden powers in other people. Like, their potential or – or something. Is that – making sense?”

“I’m not sure,” Scott says at the same time that Lydia nods, “Absolutely.”

“But I thought – I mean – how could I be an Alpha?” Scott is looking at Derek, but Derek is pressing his lips together and stays silent.

“Don’t you get it, Scott?” Lydia says instead, “It’s because Stiles needs you to be one – he wanted an anchor, so he…”

Then she is looking at Derek and her voice turns into a whisper, “…so he simply made one for himself – oh, my _God_.”

Derek is staring back at her, an unreadable expression on his face while the unspoken words just hang there between them: _Because Derek refused to take Stiles as his mate, Stiles simply turned to someone else._

“No,” Stiles is saying, slowly, “No, that’s not it. You got it wrong, Lydia – I think the potential must have been there already. Otherwise every Spark would just pick a werewolf and turn him or her into an Alpha and we would have at least heard of this, right? Besides…”

But he falls silent, doesn’t say it.

_Besides, I have two anchors. Two Alphas._

Scott and Derek.

But he doesn’t say it.

“Dude, that’s crazy,” Scott is saying now.

“Scott, you’re ruining your sweater,” Allison interrupts him because Scott is absent-mindedly pulling at a loop in the loosely knit fabric, right where the gorilla’s eyes are.

“I don’t think there’s anything to ruin,” Lydia says with pursed lips and a disgusted look at the hideous thing. “As for you being a True Alpha, Scott – we can just test it. Right here, right now.”

She puts her arms on her hips, flicking her eyes expectantly from Scott to Stiles and back again, as if waiting for them to consent.

Derek says nothing.

“Your shoulder,” Lydia turns to Stiles, “It hurts, doesn’t it?”

Stiles gives her a weak smile.

“It’s okay, it’s just kinda – throbbing, yeah, but…”

“I thought I saw Kate landing a blow. And while your spark could heal you in an instant – it’s not doing it. Am I right?”

A curt nod.

“That’s because you need an _Alpha_ to _channel_ your power – and send it where you want it to go. That means Scott can trigger your healing, Stiles.”

She smiles a satisfied smile, the way she usually does when she draws a mind-blowing conclusion that no one else thought of.

“Okay…?” Scott says, evidently unsure. “So – dude, it really sucks that Kate split your shoulder, but – how should I…”

But Stiles already knows. Lydia is right.

Of course – that’s how this works!

It’s so easy – he simply gives in to this yearning that’s always there in the pit of his stomach, for both of his anchors.

Sure, it’s a _different_ kind of longing for each of them. For Scott, it’s the warm glow of true friendship, for Derek, it’s –

Complicated.

But he turns to Scott now.

And, before Scott can say anything, pulls him into a hug. Even though the fabric of Scott’s ridiculous sweater is uncomfortably itchy against the skin of his cheek, Stiles doesn’t lift his head from Scott’s shoulder. When Scott cups his right hand around his neck, Stiles lets out a long breath and relaxes into the hug. It’s only when he feels the bones in his shoulder set that he understands that something was broken in there. His spark must have, at least, suppressed the pain and reduced it to a dull throb.

Now it’s warming Stiles from the inside, pulling sinews together and mending fissures.

Stiles’ eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t even hear it when Lydia whispers, “Guys….,” and Allison sniffles.

He could stay there forever, with his best friend holding him like this. It’s – it’s heaven, and he only opens his eyes when Scott moves his left hand that’s resting on Stiles’ shoulder and gives him a light squeeze.

“Derek,” Scott breathes, and Stiles turns his head a little. The Alpha is standing there, next to them, and his gaze is set on Stiles, eyes glowing red, looking –

Kinda unsettled which – okay, that’s not really accurate.

He looks more like he was struck by lightning.

Stiles frowns, blinks and lifts his head from Scott’s shoulder. He scratches his cheek – that confounded sweater, how can Scott even bear wearing something that feels like a hundred thousand ants – and turns to Derek.

Scott has stepped away from him, but the fingers of his right hand still touch Stiles’ left lightly, showing him support, grounding him, and really, Stiles is in desperate need of comfort now because the next thing Derek says is,

“I see,” but he doesn’t look like he sees, like he understands, at all. He looks like he’s losing his mind, with the look that he’s giving Stiles now. Kind of – crazy.

Like Kate Argent was contagious and she’s infected the Alpha.

“What?” Stiles says slowly.

“Good,” Derek says, completely incoherently, and then, “You don’t – need me. Scott – can handle it. Fine. I’ve gotta – yeah…”

And he turns around and walks away.

And Stiles is wondering what the fuck just happened.

“Derek?”

But he’s already vanished around the corner, leaving Stiles alone behind the gym with Scott, Allison and Lydia.

“Derek, you drove me to school – how am I supposed to get home? You said walking would be _unwise_ – _your_ words, not mine, I mean, who even talks like that! Derek? Derek!”

“I can drop you off,” Lydia says. She touches Stiles’ shoulder gently, as if to get his attention.

“No,” Stiles says, frown deepening. He turns to her. “No, you can’t, you’re mad at me, remember? Like – you want Kate to put my head on a spear or something?”

Lydia lets out a sigh. She’s shaking her head.

“I’m not – I’m…” She gets this weird expression like she’s in pain. “I’m sorry. Okay? Don’t – make me spell it out to you…”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says to her, and then, “Thank you, Lydia.”

“Dude… don’t be sad, I mean, he’s probably just… I dunno…,” Scott says, but Stiles jerks his head to the left and right.

“I’m – not. Sad. I’m not. I’m just – confused okay? That’s it. That’s the word. Con-fucking-fused.”

But of course, Scott knows how he feels. They’re connected and Stiles guesses that the only reason he’s not sobbing right now even though literally nothing happened is because Scott is still holding his fingers, soothing him.

“I don’t even care. Come on – let’s go before those paparazzi come back…”

But Lydia is just shaking her head at him.

“Oh, Stiles… don’t you understand? Derek is _jealous_.”

 

 

 

Jealous?

That’s ridiculous.

Why would he be – okay, the thing is?

Derek doesn’t even have the _right_ to be jealous. He doesn’t have the right to feel anything in any way toward Stiles. He drew the fucking boundary, right there, Alpha, Spark, and that’s that. Purely business. Outside of that, they’re nothing to each other, not mates, not anything.

Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s feeling so angry.

Maybe because he’d been sure he was over his silly crush and then Derek goes and does something like that, runs away again leaving it to Stiles to interpret his behavior, and the mere possibility of reading it as, _hypothetically_ , interest in Stiles, or jealousy or whatever – that makes it hard for Stiles to keep suppressing his feelings.

He’s always had a lively imagination and now all these scenarios are popping up in his head, dozens and dozens of them, starting with Derek who stormed away because Scott hurt his stupid Alpha pride to Derek falling on his knees in front of Stiles and begging him to take him as a mate.

Stiles is angry because he feels like he can’t bear another rejection, not today.

Even though…

“Stiles?”

Lydia flicks him on the cheek with her fingers and Stiles jumps a little.

Right.

He’s in Lydia’s car and she’s saying, “We’re here.”

To his right – the Stilinski house. The lights are on which means his dad is home. It looks the way it always does, old mailbox with this big dent in the middle of it, probably from one of the neighborhood kids accidentally ramming it with his bike, the sheriff’s cruiser a little to the right in front of the garage and, next to it, parked out on the lawn, Stiles’ good old Jeep.

But then, nothing is like it used to be, really. Parking to their left, on the driver’s side, there are at least four of these black cars with tinted windows that look like they’re bulletproof, and then there’s the ominous van with something like an antenna on top that looks suspiciously like a surveillance van, one of these things that you usually only see in movies.

“You’ll be okay,” Lydia says and, as is usual with her, it sounds like a command, but Stiles detects an edge of something like worry in her voice and he nods.

“Yup. Thanks, Lydia. So…,” hand hovering over the door handle, “…we’re good?”

Lydia nods – and smiles.

Okay.

At least something. The banshee is no longer livid – that’s good.

“See ya,” Stiles says, and then he’s out of the car and out on the lawn. He watches Lydia pull back onto the road and speed away. She won’t have any problems to get through, the road is no longer blocked, but Stiles is pretty sure that she’s on the radar now of whoever is watching the house from behind those tinted windows.

Stiles has the uncomfortable sensation of having a hundred eyes on him even though he can’t see a single face. The street is strangely empty, but, again – it just _looks_ empty. It isn’t really.

When he turns, he can see the curtains in one of the windows on the other side of the street move like someone’s is behind them, looking out onto the street.

Watching.

Waiting.

A shudder runs down his spine.

He starts walking toward the house and spots the deputy’s cruiser a little way down the street, toward the left.

Aw, great. The last thing Stiles can bear now is a full house.

Not that he doesn’t like Parrish – he just needs to be alone with his thoughts right now because – he just realized that he never actually told Derek he wanted to be with him – in any way at all.

In the little time that he has known Derek, Stiles has always been careful to hide the fact that he’s – well. Kind of into him. _Unless_ you count the boners Derek has accidentally given him, but – that might really just be a weird teenage-spark reaction. And maybe that’s what Derek made of these moments, too.

Stiles sighs, pulls the door open and yells, “I’m hooome!”

And then, before his dad can even show his face in the living room, “I’m in my roooom!”

He takes four steps at a time, thinking that he really can’t talk to his dad right now. He’s still upset and his dad would know because he’s his dad, but then – they’re still not that close. It would be weird and Stiles can’t possibly bear any more weirdness today. He feels like everything that happened this Monday could fill a whole goddamn book. Okay, maybe not a book, but – a chapter at least.

But then, the day is over, it’s done. All he has to do is walk down this dark hallway, pull the door to his room open, dump his bag and jacket and shoes, switch on the light –

And jump in surprise and hiss “ _Holy sh_ -” and then, maybe, stumble backwards over his feet and hit his head on the wall, hard.

Because right there, on his bed?

Is a girl.

Not just _any_ girl.

It’s a naked girl.

A very, very naked girl.

She’s young and brunette and pretty and really completely naked, there’s not even – nope, no bra, no – holy – _Jesus_ , not even panties, no and he’s closing his eyes _right_ now, holy God.

“ _What the_ ,” his voice sounds oddly high-pitched. He feels like he’s losing it, he’s absolutely – he’s going to freak the fuck out –

“What – are you _doing_ – who – what-”

He can see through the slits of his eyelids that she’s beaming at him. There’s a faint blush around her cheeks that makes her absolutely lovely and she smells nice, too, like strawberries. Her hair is artfully done up with a few glossy curls falling loosely down to  her chest.

“You’re – naked,” he breathes – he doesn’t know why and it’s absolutely ridiculous, but he’s really having trouble to even get the words out, let alone saying them with his real voice.

“I’m,” the girl says and she even _sounds_ cute, “This is – for you.”

And she slowly peels her arms away from her chest and, okay.

No, definitely not a bra, nope, not the tiniest trace of clothing on that girl. Stiles, in an insane moment, wishes Scott were here to cover her up with one of his sweaters.

“How did you even-” He’s strangely breathless.

What the hell is happening?

“Get in here? I had – help,” the girl says and then the mattress dips and she stands. She can’t be older than sixteen.

What sixteen-year-old would do something like this? Like, what the….

“I – I just wanted to – see you,” she says and her voice sounds pained now.

“Okay, you did, now get out!”

“I’m…,” Stiles can tell that she’s in front of him now, but he can’t look at her, he doesn’t dare open his eyes, it’s so stupid, but he’s mortified, “…a virgin. I – I thought – I could be anything, you know… I saw your photo in the newspaper and-” Stiles can even hear the blush in her _voice_ , “I know that Sparks prefer – a _pure_ mate. And... you’re just so cute, I – you’re adorable, can I- I have to-”

“Please don’t,” Stiles whispers frantically, but she lifts her hand anyway and brushes his cheek with soft fingertips. She’s trembling just as much as Stiles is and when her lips graze over his, he feels like something in his brain short-circuits and he screams.

A moment later a lot of people are in his room and there are more of them coming in every second.

The first one in is his dad’s deputy, Parrish and then the sheriff himself and, for some reason, Derek, followed by at least half a dozen of these state troopers. They tackle the poor girl to the ground and she’s terrified and crying, but it’s no use. One of the guys has his knee in her back while he’s handcuffing her and this is when the girl really starts shrieking.

They only let up when Parrish yells, “It’s just a kid, don’t hurt her! Don’t break her fucking arm! Jeez…”

“She assaulted Stiles,” Derek says. Right upon entering he let his eyes dart around the room until they found Stiles, settled on him. He hasn’t looked away since.

Stiles has sunk to the floor.

He’s shaking.

“What did she do to you?” Derek says, “And how the fuck did she even get in here?! You’re supposed to _guard_ the Spark, not come running in when it’s too fucking late! You do realize that he could be dead right now!”

“Derek, calm down,” the sheriff says. He puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder.

The girl is a sobbing mess. Parrish covers her up with a sheet from Stiles’ bed and then the troopers take her away, looking embarrassed under their gas masks and steel helmets.

“What happens to her?” Stiles says. There’s still a faint tremble in his voice. He rubs his forehead, can feel a headache building.

And there he thought the day was over. Ha.

Not in this town.

“Nothing bad,” the sheriff says. He’s kneeling in front of Stiles now. “They’ll give her a set of clothes and then she’ll get a restraining order and some kind of punishment. We’ll make sure that girl never harasses you again, she’s clearly a fanatic. You okay, son?”

Stiles nods.

“Fanatic…,” he mumbles.

“They’re called sparkomanics,” Parrish explains. “They’re essentially fangirls – er, or – boys, of course – and every Spark has them. They can get really dangerous, too. They’re, you know – obsessed.”

He’s checking the closet, then he looks under Stiles’ bed.

“No one else here. She was alone.”

“Why didn’t I smell her,” Derek says. He’s still standing next to the door. “I should have been able to sense that someone was up here…”

“So should I,” Parrish says. “But we didn’t. I’m going to go after them and find out why that is. That girl did – _something_ – to veil her presence.”

“Not to mention to get into the most heavily guarded house in the whole fucking state,” the sheriff says and he sounds tired. “There’s literally cameras in every corner, the walls are covered in mountain ash and the outside of the windows is layered with kanima venom. That reminds me. Stiles – try not to touch the windows from the outside.”

“I won’t,” Stiles says – and he already knew that. He’d been watching a group of specialists put in the security system over the course of the past week, slightly amused by the fact that ninety percent of it consisted of smearing slime in different colors on doors, walls and windows.

Mountain ash, of course, is a powder so the easiest way to coat the exterior walls with it is to stir it into a kind of glue and then use it like paint. Stiles read that it keeps weres out. They can’t touch it or step over it and if it gets into their system – if they swallow some of it, say – it works like kryptonite.

“You look exhausted, son,” the sheriff is saying.

“I am.”

“Are you sure, you’re okay?”

Another nod.

“Okay, we’ll let you get ready for bed. I think we can talk about your – _escapade_ with Kate Argent tomorrow morning.”

Stiles turns his head and glowers at Derek.

“You told him?!”

“He didn’t have to tell me,” the sheriff sighs. “It was on the radio five minutes ago. We were just listening to the report when you came home.”

“Oh…”

“Derek and I need to discuss a few more things, we’ll be downstairs if you need us.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He stands with a sigh and walks over to his bed. The comforter is rumpled where the girl sat. The girl with her naked –

Oh, God.

Stiles buries his face in his hands.

Could he have reacted in a more embarrassing way?

Then he remembers something. He lifts the pile of books from his nightstand and picks up the photo that is always there, hidden underneath them.

It’s the one that mysteriously re-appeared in his bedroom after Derek took it from him. The one in which he looks particularly handsome.

Stiles stares down at it and thinks that he wouldn’t mind walking into his room and finding Derek sitting naked on his bed.

He doesn’t even give his cheeks the time to flush, he’s out in the hallway so fast that he trips over his own feet, bumps his knee on the door frame and curses.

“Ow, _fuck_ … Dad? Dad, I-”

He stops in the middle of the stairs. His face is very red, he can feel it, but – if a teenage girl can muster the courage to sneak into his bedroom, buck naked, surely Stiles can be brave enough to confront Derek, right?

There’s a voice in the back of his mind telling him that said girl assaulted him, that what she did was not okay and that she probably has a serious case of – some syndrome or other – but he shoves that thought away. It’s really not helping right now.

The sheriff and Derek have turned and they’re both looking at him, waiting for him to say something.

“Er,” Stiles starts and clears his throat, “Can I – can I talk to Derek? Just for a minute?”

Then, because he gets this feeling that the way he said it was really odd, he quickly adds, “Nothing – nothing important, just about, er – about school, I mean – about this morning, I still have questions about Gerard’s list and – stuff.”

Shut the fuck up, Stiles.

Just shut up.

Derek knows you’re lying.

He knows, but he still nods.

The sheriff walks into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of cold coffee – gross – and Derek follows Stiles up to his room.

 

 

 

As soon as the door has closed behind him, Stiles finds himself in the middle of a convoluted mess of words, blushing more and more deeply with every moment that Derek is just looking at him, completely nonchalantly. Any tension or anger or – jealousy or whatever it was, gone, gone, _gone_ from his features and Stiles suddenly feels like he made a huge mistake, like he got it all wrong, but he can’t stop _talking_.

“…and I thought you, I mean, I really didn’t know Scott was my anchor until that last time when I was – I mean, _time’s_ not the right word, but then, _word_ is not the right word eitherand – all I’m saying is – he’s not my _only_ anchor.”

Derek furrows his brow but he doesn’t say anything. He flicks his eyes over to Stiles’ nightstand where, on top of a pile of books and right below his bedside lamp, really in the spotlight in Stiles’ semi-dark room, is the photo of Derek that Stiles just left there when he ran out of his room.

Stiles’s cheeks turn an even darker shade of red and – can you faint from mortification? Because Stiles feels like you can, like his knees might give out any second, but then, he’s used to panic attacks and he talks right through this one, going,

“…I thought you knew, like, I thought it was an Alpha thing or something, to know? But then, it seems like you don’t, so here it is: you’re _both_ my anchors and I – it’s not true that I – that I don’t need you…” His voice trails off. He is staring down at his socks as if hoping to find an instruction there on how to be less awkward. But they’re just regular socks. There’s not even a hole in them.

“What did you say?” Derek says even though Stiles knows that he heard him.

“I – I said – you’re both – my anchors. Scott and – and you. You and Scott. I think it’s why – it’s why I managed to avoid accidentally turning a – a mass murderer,” he sighs and shakes his head and adds, “So far.”

Derek makes a strange noise and Stiles’ head snaps up.

For the fraction of a second he thinks Derek is crying because he is burying his face in his hands – but then he throws his head back into his neck, roaring with laughter.

This is when Stiles realizes that he has never seen Derek laugh before. Not like this, anyway.

All Stiles can think is that he’s gorgeous, with tears on the corners of his eyes and that handsome face of his in a hundred wrinkles.

Then he just stands there, awkwardly, and waits for Derek to calm down which he does after what feels like a long time.

He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling softly, walks over to Stiles’ bed and flops down. Then he lifts his head and looks over to Stiles.

“I’m sorry for that outburst, Stiles. I’ve just been feeling – kind of – on edge. I thought it was because of how stressful these past days have been, but I just realized – just now, really,” he shakes his head and laughs some more.

“God, what an idiot I’ve been…”

“Er… I don’t – understand,” Stiles says carefully. He really doesn’t want to spoil Derek’s good mood even though it feels more like he’s losing it. It seems to be something that happens to everyone in Beacon Hills, sooner or later. You just have to be here long enough.

“You see, Lydia was right,” Derek says and he looks up to meet Stiles’ gaze. “I was jealous.”

Stiles thinks, _What?!_ , but he says out loud, “You heard that?”

“Of course I did. I was just around the corner, fighting down the urge to tear Scott’s throat out.”

Stiles pales a little and Derek quickly goes, “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t of course. In fact – I’m glad it turned out this way. This explains a lot, you know? From the moment I first noticed him – he was with you, remember? – I noticed his potential. I just didn’t know what it was. There’s something truly – _real_ about him. Honest.” Then Derek suddenly shakes his head as if to cut himself off.

“But that’s not what I meant when I said, Lydia was right. I wasn’t jealous of Scott because he presented as a True Alpha – more powerful than I could ever be.”

“Is he?” Stiles says with wide eyes which prompts a smile from Derek. An open and warm smile that makes something inside of Stiles’ chest jump.

“…I was jealous because I thought – not only had I failed, but-”

He stops, never finishes the sentence.

“When Erica called this morning and I understood that – I mean, I was convinced that Harris – I – I felt like I was going insane. I was sitting in that fucking meeting and I had to show decorum because I’m the fucking Alpha when all I wanted was-”

He laughs again, softly, and rubs his eyes.

“Never mind now. I’m sorry, Stiles. What was it that you wanted to say?”

But Stiles can only stare at this man, this drop-dead-gorgeous man who’s sitting on his bed and being more relaxed, more open with him than he’d ever seen him before and everything Stiles wanted to say just dies in his throat. He just makes a strange noise – like a strangled hamster or something – and falls silent, blushing wildly, thinking that he can’t, he can’t.

He can’t tell Derek or ask him or – he just _can’t_. So he presses his lips together and buries his hands in his pockets.

“Stiles?”

Derek is still looking at him.

“…what you were just saying, about Scott and me – that we’re both you anchors, is that – is that true?”

Stiles nods curtly.

“It is, but if you’d rather – I mean if it’s, like – bothering you or anything-”

“No, silly,” Derek says. “Completely on the contrary – you have no idea what a relief that is in – in more ways than one.” But he stops himself again and the question just tumbles out of Stiles’ mouth, before he can stop it.

“Is Kate Argent really your fiancée?”

The smile vanishes from Derek’s lips and Stiles can feel his own heart sink in his chest. He’s such an idiot, oh my God, why didn’t he just shut the fuck –

“She likes thinking that.”

“Well, is she?” Stiles says, immediately irritated at Derek’s return to his old, maddeningly cryptic self.

But then Derek surprises him and says, “No. She isn’t.”

After a moment, he adds, “But that doesn’t stop her from fighting any potential girlfriend to the death… I – there was this girl – when I had just taken my mother’s powers. I was sixteen – your age.”

Stiles is watching Derek rub his temples thoughtfully. He can’t believe this is happening. Derek is opening up to him. Stiles is almost afraid to breathe in too loudly for fear of making Derek stop.

“Her name was Paige. She was – lovely. But then – Kate showed up and… well, you can imagine the rest…”

“Did – did she hurt her?” Stiles can feel his heart beating in his throat. “Oh, my God, she killed her!”

Derek snorts out a chuckle, but it doesn’t sound cheerful.

“No, she didn’t harm her, not – physically. Paige was a wendigo – _is_ a wendigo. She’s really fast, but Kate just – harassed her. She wouldn’t back off, there wasn’t anything anyone could do, no long-term solution anyway.”

“Lock her up?” Stiles suggests and Derek sighs.

“Stiles, trust me – we tried everything. Eventually, she just – Paige was just tired.”

There is a short silence. Stiles can tell that Derek is thinking about Paige and somehow, for whatever reason, it makes his heart ache.

“It’s why I became the Alpha, too,” Derek suddenly says and then he stands and looks at Stiles earnestly, thoughtfully.

“Because of – Paige?” Stiles frowns. Didn’t he just say that he met – or dated – Paige after he became the Alpha?

“No, because my mum, it was just too much for her – I have three sisters, you know? And people kept attacking my mother wherever she went and – I could tell she was growing tired of it, so… I took her power. She wasn’t happy about it. Told me not to be a martyr. But, well… it’s better like this. She’s mostly on business trips now, something she could never do while she was the Alpha.”

Stiles looks at him for so long while he’s fitting these precious pieces of information into the web of blanks and gaps that is Derek that Derek says with a small chuckle, “Don’t look at me like that. You always do that.”

“Mh?”

“With that face.”

“What face?”

But Derek just rolls his eyes and doesn’t elaborate.

“Okay. You should – go to bed… it’s been a long day for you. I can’t pick you up tomorrow morning, but I’m going to check in on you as soon as I can, I promise.” And then, in a low voice, “And I’m gonna make damn sure that it’s not that creep Parrish who’s taking you to school…”

“Parrish is alright.”

“No he isn’t,” Derek snaps and he looks a lot gloomier all of a sudden. “You can’t sense the way he – never mind… Good night, Stiles.”

“What are you going to do? Are you going to go home?”

Stiles thinks of the burned-out shell that is Derek’s house and feels lost.

He doesn’t want him to go.

He wants him to stay here, with him, and laughing and smiling the way he did five minutes ago.

But he can’t tell him that. He just can’t.

“Yeah… probably gonna go home…”

“Don’t lie.”

Derek sighs, his hand already on the doorknob.

“Your Spark senses can be goddamn annoying.”

Stiles smirks at him.

“Figured.”

“I’m going to look for Kate – I’m pretty sure I know where she is – and make her give up and go back to Mexico. Let her know that – she doesn’t have to feel threatened by you.”

The way Derek says it sounds like he means for Stiles to feel better, to feel safe, but all it does is make his heart ache more acutely.

“Doesn’t she?” he says in a low voice, then immediately bites his tongue.

He expects Derek to walk away the way he usually does, but Derek just stands there, looking at him, at the way Stiles hangs his head, with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m going to let her know that-”

But then, before Stiles can stop himself, the stuff he’d been meaning to say just spills out of his mouth.

“Why wouldn’t you take me as your mate?”

Derek stops – and stares at him.

“Why? Just – I just want to know why, when everyone seems to think it’s the best, but then you-”

Derek says, “Stiles,” in a low voice, but Stiles talks right over him, wiping angrily at his eyes.

Why does he always have to start crying in the worst possible moments?

“No, I just – you wouldn’t even explain what it means and then, when I kinda knew – and Dr. Calvin also said it would be better and – I mean – why – I just want to know why the thought is so repulsive to you.”

He presses his lips together and sniffles.

Derek gapes at him.

“Okay,” he says, slowly. He walks back into the room and softly pulls the door shut behind him.

“Sit down, Stiles.”

“No!” Stiles says heatedly without even knowing why he would react that way. It just feels like Derek is going to give him a speech and talk down at him with this calm, all-grown-up demeanor and Stiles hates that dynamic. He hates it when Derek points out how much older he is. It’s like he’s saying that they would never fit – that Stiles’ crush is ridiculous, that he is ridiculous.

“Stiles,” Derek starts again, but Stiles interrupts him.

“I just want an answer, I don’t need you to lecture me, I just – I thought-” He stops and chews around on his lower lip, feeling completely wrecked.

“Look,” Derek starts slowly. He has this earnest look on his face again and Stiles almost can’t bear it. It’s full of worry – and pity. It’s awful.

“Just because everyone says so doesn’t mean that’s the way it is.”

Silence.

“Uh-hu…,” Stiles says. His eyes are filling up with tears again and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“You didn’t _choose_ to be a Spark. You just became one. But who you give your heart to? That’s something you can choose. Stiles, you’re a smart kid – you already figured out that you don’t need a mate bond to keep you anchored. And,” here the ghost of a smile flits across Derek’s face, “You even used your incredible power to simply create a second anchor in your best friend. Yes, Scott had the potential – but without you, he’d never have presented as a True Alpha – and he’s not even at his strongest yet. I saw him behind the gym, his eyes haven’t fully turned, but when they do – Stiles, you will already go down in history as a Spark. But never before has a Spark found himself a True Alpha, simply created his own anchor for himself – it has never happened like this.”

“This isn’t about Scott,” Stiles says in a clipped tone, completely unimpressed.

“It isn’t,” Derek concedes. He runs his hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, evidently at a loss for words. Stiles just stands there, hands pressed to his sides as if he’s afraid he might fall apart, eyes very wet.

He’s so sad – there’s no words.

He just wants Derek to hold him.

“I can’t take a mate, Stiles,” Derek is saying now and he doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes averted to the ground. “You saw Kate – and she isn’t the only one – being mated to an Alpha is – it’s hell. It means being on your toes twenty-four seven and being forced to fight every single crazy bi- I mean, every single crazy boy or girl who’s convinced the Alpha will mate with the strongest of them all.”

When Stiles doesn’t say anything, Derek continues, “But… if I – were to choose a mate – hypothetically, yes? I would want it to be – based on mutual consent.”

He flicks his eyes up to Stiles’ at this.

“It should happen,” he frowns, evidently uncomfortable with voicing something so intimate, “out of love. Not because the entire town deems it a _wise decision_.”

There is the faintest blush around his cheeks and Stiles thinks that Derek’s so gorgeous, he could cry.

He doesn’t know what he expected.

Derek truly opened up to him, more than Stiles ever thought possible, but Stiles feels oddly hollow.

“I would,” Derek starts to say and he lets his gaze wander around the room, “I would want for that person to – tell me what they want.”

A quick side-glance at Stiles. Then he shakes his head as if to rid himself of an unwanted thought. Or a gremlin nesting in his hair, you never know with this town.

“You’re just a teenager, Stiles,” he says softly, even mustering a faint smile. “Believe me, I know exactly what that feels like. Even when you think you know what you want – you don’t really.”

When Stiles doesn’t react, Derek walks over to the door, pulls it open.

“Try to sleep,” he says and reaches for the door handle and he’s almost out of Stiles’ room, basically out of the house already, right? – and Stiles can’t bear it. They’re just going to let it sit there like this, all the words on Stiles’ mind unspoken, driving him insane, but then he’ll never find the courage to bring it up again.

He may not know exactly what he wants for the rest of his life because he’s a teenager, yes.

But he’s also a Spark and he has seen all the pasts, presents and futures – all of them and in every dimension, and he has walked strange lands, ten thousand light-years from Earth.

And he _wants_ Derek.

And then, just when his door is almost shut, he can feel something inside him snap.

“I want you to kiss me,” he says and it’s really just a whisper, but he did mean it – he only wanted to give Derek the option to _not_ hear him.

There is no movement outside the door and Stiles turns around, away, and he thinks that he might as well spend his evening like this, picking up the shards of his heart, yes, and it might take a while, so he better start –

When his door creaks.

Stiles stops, but he doesn’t turn around.

For the second time that night, Derek walks back into his room and pushes the door shut behind him, softly.

Stiles can almost feel his presence, but the silence draws on for an oddly long time and of course Derek heard him, but then – what is this? What kind of a situation is this? Stiles can’t for the life of him, tell what this strange atmosphere means, this tension, and it’s killing him.

He needs to know whether he was brave or exceedingly stupid, he can’t bear this suspense.

After what feels like an eternity, so long that Stiles can almost _hear_ his dad directing his eyes at the ceiling and wondering what the hell the two of them are discussing up there for hours, he can’t take it anymore and he says, voice shaky and kind of thin, “If you don’t – _want_ me – that’s fine, just-”

But he has no idea what he meant to say. There is no just or but. If Derek doesn’t want him which he probably doesn’t?

Well, then fuck his life.

He’s just going to be like every single other fucking teenager in the world and be heartbroken.

Derek clears his throat and then, absolutely incredibly, he goes, “I never said that.”

Stiles gets googly eyes which Derek of course can’t see because Stiles has his back toward him, so Derek just continues with something more like an awkward stutter, more like something Stiles would say than Derek Hale, Alpha of the Free Town of Beacon Hills, “I mean that’s just the problem with you, too, it’s like you never listen, you’re so insightful and then you indulge in the most absurd ways of thinking.” He takes a deep breath.

“Sometimes I’d really like to look into that brain of yours and clean the mess up. It’s probably utter chaos up there.”

Stiles has turned around and even though he feels almost insane doing it, he smirks at Derek and says, “Still more in order than your house.”

And Derek stares at him.

For five seconds, then ten and then, for the second time that evening, he starts shaking with laughter, this one more subdued, but still.

Stiles can’t really put his finger to it, but this might be the craziest day of his life – even crazier than the day he awoke which – that’s insane, right?

“God, whenever I’m around you, I feel kind of – unhinged,” Derek says and then, suddenly, he’s right in front of Stiles who holds his breath.

“I don’t know what on Earth could make you think – I’m too old for you, Stiles. I thought – it might be your spark pulling you toward me.”

“It’s not,” Stiles says, breathing out, “And you’re not.”

“You’re a minor.”

“So?”

“Your father would kill me, it would be-”

“What?”

“Are you even-”

But he stops and Stiles rolls his eyes, guessing exactly what Derek meant to say.

“I thought gender wasn’t important.”

“It’s not, not here. But you’re not from here, Stiles. You’re – you don’t know what you’re-”

Stiles is biting his lip again, anxious, agitated, everything – a nervous wreck, basically, but then Derek stops talking.

He is staring at Stiles’ lips with this look on his face that Stiles thinks he might have seen on him before. An odd look, a mixture of surprised and pained. He never knew what it meant. He just figured that in these moments Derek was particularly annoyed with him.

Now he’s not so sure anymore.

Derek watches him suck his lower lip into his mouth and bite it with his teeth, then release it again. And repeat.

“Can I – try – something,” Derek suddenly says, eyes wide, voice a hoarse whisper, and Stiles nods.

Derek lifts his right hand.

Then he cups it around Stiles’ neck the way Scott did earlier that day, only – _different_.

It’s always different with Derek.

Stiles closes his eyes, thinking that he finally got Derek to scent-mark him again – he read about it in his biology textbook, it’s how an Alpha marks his packmates and how he keeps a Spark grounded – but then something brushes against Stiles’ lips and his eyes fly open.

Derek immediately draws back, cheeks turning red, it’s the oddest sight.

“Sorry! Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, I thought – I shouldn’t have-”

But it’s too late. There’s no way that Stiles could _not_ understand this as an invitation, no. Fucking Way.

He closes the gap between them and, without really knowing why, fists his hands into the fabric of Derek’s long sleeve. He could have just taken Derek by the shoulders, but then, he’s Stiles and does weird things all the time. He can’t really help it.

He presses his lips onto Derek’s mouth and for a horrible second, he thinks he might have misunderstood – he might have misread this entire situation.

Then Derek’s arms fly up and curl around Stiles’ body and he’s pulling him flush against his chest so that Stiles has to uncurl his hands because they’re in the way now, and slide them around Derek’s neck. Derek is holding him so tight that it almost takes Stiles’ breath away.

But what might also be doing this is the kiss Derek is giving him now.

He’s kissing him back and he tastes bitter and fresh at the same time, like coffee and spearmint and – it’s funny how they’re the same height, only Stiles is this pale and lanky teenager, hair cropped way too short and Derek is this, well.

Man, really, body like steel and the most handsome face Stiles has seen in his whole life.

And, holy God, Jesus and Mohammed – he’s never been kissed like this before.

Not that Derek has a flawless technique or anything, Stiles wouldn’t really know, simply because what they’re doing right now, it’s urgent, it’s almost desperate, and it’s so beyond rational thought that reason might as well be a dude sitting on his bed and watching them with a bowl of popcorn in hands.

When Stiles can feel Derek harden against him he lets out a soft moan and Derek holds him even closer. At this point neither of them can pull back anymore and, in retrospect, Stiles is sure that they would have ended up on his bed if Derek’s stupid sense of responsibility hadn’t kicked back in right at the last moment.

Curse his Alpha instincts.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull back entirely. Instead, he puts his head on Stiles’ shoulder and nuzzles his face into Stiles’ sweater.

“Your dad will be up here in a minute,” he whispers, his voice kinda wrecked. “He’s wondering what’s taking us so long.”

“What are you gonna tell him?” Stiles says, almost surprised at himself, at the fact that he can speak. He is so worked up, quite frankly, he doesn’t even know how he’s still standing. Derek’s hot breath against the side of his neck is making his erection throb painfully.

“…I promised him, I had no intentions, I-”

Derek stops and starts loosening his death grip around Stiles’ back.

“I just – wanna be with you?” Stiles says with a small voice even though he has never been so sure about anything in his whole life.

Derek pulls back and steps away from him. He’s staring at Stiles’ lips that carry Derek’s scent, that are swollen from their kiss and at the red spots on Stiles’ cheeks that he always gets when he’s agitated.

“I never thought – I thought you could never-”

“Can we – be like this again? Not tell anyone, but… just…” 

Stiles looks down at his feet. He’s tearing up again, this time for completely different reasons. If Derek says no to him now – he’s going to die.

But Derek doesn’t.

He pulls his shoulders up to his ears, his cheeks sort of red, then he smiles faintly and nods with that look on his face like he’s amazed – at himself, at Stiles, at everything.

Clears his throat because he’s kind of choking up a little and goes,

“Yeah.”

Looks up at the ceiling, nods again, runs his hand through his hair.

“Yeah.”

Stiles exhales and closes his eyes.

He’s still standing there, in the darkness, long after Derek walked out and shut the door behind him.


	9. He Feedeth Among the Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He simply doesn’t consider that Derek could be making one, too, a mistake – that he could say something stupid, for instance.  
> Stiles simply doesn’t consider it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a new chapter, I hope you enjoy it; I'm sorry it took me so long to answer even a few comments - I always read them right away and appreciate them very much though; your comments and kudos really make me want to keep writing and sharing this story with you, so thank you all so much <3  
> also: even though this story will (probably) be finished after 10 chapters (+ prologue/ epilogue), I'm already planning the sequel; I just wanted to make a cut after ch. 10 that would give readers a sense of closure before I move on to more sterek (sounds idiotic, but it's making perfect sense in my head, I swear) - anyway, enjoy!
> 
> and happy holidays, everyone!!

 

 

 

 

Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse,

with me from Lebanon:

look from the top of Amana,

from the top of Shenir and Hermon,

from the lions’ dens,

from the mountains of the leopards.

(Song of Songs 4:8, _KJV_ )

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is it.

Stiles and Derek.

Derek and Stiles.

He couldn’t sleep that night. The ghost of Derek’s touch in his neck was too present, the taste of coffee and spearmint on his lips too pervasive.

Around 4 a.m., Stiles fell into an unsteady slumber, only to be dragged brutally back to reality by the sound of his alarm clock three hours later.

He’s only gradually waking up in the shower now, and all he can do when he remembers the previous night is blush wildly and keep himself from rushing to his phone and sending Derek a text.

Because the thing is, Stiles may be a teenager, but he’s not an idiot.

Derek is not the first person he has dated which – are they dating? He wouldn’t know.

And that, right there, is the crucial point.

The worst thing he could do right now?

Be clingy.

Problem of course being that clingy kind of equates with ‘Stiles.’ Co-dependent is practically his middle name, but no.

He’s not going to ruin this.

Besides.

They only kissed, okay?

Yeah, alright, it was the best fucking kiss Stiles ever got and made his wildest dreams appear like a cheap porno version of the real thing, but it’s not like Derek asked him to ~~mate~~ marry him or anything which-

That’s cool.

Stiles is cool.

He’s taking it easy – he _can_ take it easy when he wants to, no shit.

So he’s in the bathroom and brushing his teeth, kinda embarrassed by the fact that his cheeks are red even though no one’s there with him, no one knows about the kiss, no one saw – _no one_ , because the blinds were drawn and there’s no cameras in Stiles’ room – and he’s so absorbed in figuring out how to prevent the thousands upon thousands of mistakes he could be making that day that he forgets.

He simply doesn’t consider that Derek could be making one, too, a mistake – that he could say something stupid, for instance.

Stiles simply doesn’t consider it.

 

 

***

_The Beacon_

Tue, Oct 25, 2016

Iss. 23846

“He almost killed us all!!!” - SPARKING HAVOC AT B.H. HIGH!

_Parents worry about the safety of their children at Beacon Hills High School as reports of Spark’s first day at school surface._

Termed “a bold choice,” “madness” and “the certain end of the world,” Principal Gerard Argent’s decision to permit the newly awakened Spark to come back to his school…

***

 

Stiles’ head hits the table top with a clonk.

He doesn’t even have the strength to fold up the Tuesday issue of _The Beacon_ so he simply shoves it off the table. There is a blown-up photo of Derek guiding Stiles into the school building with his hand in the boy’s neck on the front page surrounded with a few of the dumbest things Stiles has ever read, from wild assumptions such as ‘The Alpha and the Spark Already Mated? – Photographic Evidence Suggests It’ to downright absurd claims such as the allegedly established fact that Sparks are drawn to the smell of virgins and prefer frogs as pets.

“Heeey, watcha doin’ down there?” the sheriff says cheerfully as he walks into the kitchen, half-empty coffee pot at his lips. It’s his favorite, the one with the bearded mermaid on it.

Stiles only responds by grumbling sounds of discontent against the table top.

His dad rolls his eyes, walks over to where the radio sits on a shelf and turns it on.

Then he leans against the counter and considers the back of his son’s head with an amused smile.

“You’re going to have to sit up eventually, you know.”

“Not if I eat like this,” Stiles says, grabs a piece of Mrs. Allen’s special bacon, slides it into the gap between the table top and his chin and slurps it up like a spaghetti noodle.

“Stiles!”

Stiles lets out a dramatic sigh and sits up straight with a pained expression just as Freddie Galotti’s voice says,

 

 _…with president Wilkes who said – and I quote – “The awakening of the first Spark is a blessing upon this century and a sign that America, even though they do not know of their existence, needs the supernatural community – now more than ever.” Wise words, I’d say, huh, Jenny? If we believe this morning’s_ Beacon _, however, there’s some who are not feeling so blessed. While hundreds of families are moving into the Beacon County area to be close to the young Spark, parents are considering withdrawing their children permanently from Beacon Hills High. We asked for your opinion on this matter and – we have a first caller! This is Sandy – and she wants to remain anonymous for fear that her daughter gets harrassed at school - Sandy! You are considering sending your daughter to a different school?_

Stiles is staring at the radio with mixed feelings. He’d really need an hour after each and every one of Freddie Galotti’s sentences to digest the sheer amount of information, but, true to its name, Panic Radio simply continues their relentless broadcast, not heeding a Spark’s feelings in his dad’s kitchen.

A woman’s voice is saying now: _Good morning, Freddie, er – hi, Jenny_ [both radio hosts answering with ‘Hi’ and ‘Hello’].

Freddie’s voice says: _Sandy – your daughter goes to Beacon Hills High. Why do you want her to stop going there?_

To which Sandy responds: _Freddie, my husband and I are thinking about leaving this town for good! Everyone knows that being around a newly awakened Spark is a danger to our lives, to our homes! I – I don’t want to be ungrateful, but – look, I have to think of my kids first, right? And my oldest – I don’t wanna say her name now because those kids are cruel and they already bully her, but – she’s fourteen and she’s dead set on becoming the Spark’s mate._

Freddie answers in a tone of mock-surprise, _His mate! But a Spark belongs with the Alpha – wouldn’t you say so?_

Stiles' heart starts beating.

A Spark belongs with the Alpha? The statement is just plain wrong. It’s not about Sparks and Alphas – it’s about Derek and Stiles.

He’s not some sort of walking cliché, goddamnit.

Sandy continues, _Freddie, my daughter is just a young beta – young and impressionable and she saw the boy at school yesterday and she swears that he’s unmated, that he smelled unmated – and she’s talking about him non-stop and when I told her she’d have to stay home if she doesn’t cut it out, she freaked out on me, quite frankly, I – we don’t know what to do._

Freddie hums about that for a few seconds, then he says, _What would you tell the Spark if he was listening right now, Sandy?_

Stiles is sitting up in his chair, feeling strangely caught.

His dad is slurping his coffee in perfect silence while Sandy says,

_I’d tell him that – that he’s a blessing and that – I want him to bless our family and protect us and to – to keep those kids safe, alright? He shouldn’t get their hopes up. He should form a mating bond and make it official and – he should be aware of what he’s doing here, that it’s not –_

_But, Sandy, he’s sixteen. He’s a teenager, too_ , Freddie interrupts her.

Rather incoherently, Sandy says back, _No, he’s – he’s more than human and he’s omniscient. Everyone knows that – look, he’d find a way – he knows what’s best. He’ll fulfill the prophecies and he---_

“I think that’s enough for today,” the sheriff says. He extends his hand and turns the knob on the radio and Sandy’s voice vacates the kitchen, finally.

Stiles feels like his brain is afloat in a puddle of words. He doesn’t even know where to start – or if to start at all.

Maybe he should just let it sit there and do what every teenager would: do his research on his phone, later, during algebra.

“If you’re omniscient – then why do you keep getting C’s on your biology exams?”

His father hides a smirk behind his cup.

Stiles shoots him a dark look.

“Harris just – creeps me out… I wanna see how you ace a test when you have this dude breathing down your neck.”

Literally.

Stiles shudders.

He never told his dad the details of the Kate incident.

Maybe he should have.

“Fair enough,” his dad says. And then, “Eat your breakfast.”

Stiles starts munching his eggs.

“And remember that you’re grounded for the whole week,” – because he confronted Kate – Stiles is looking at his dad gloomily - "And no funny business today at school. Understood?”

“Tell that to the lunatics who teach us…,” Stiles mutters, and when his dad says, “What?” he just shakes his head and takes a sip from his coffee.

Then, when his dad is about to leave the room and head to his study, Stiles remembers something exceptionally strange about the interview he just heard – something even stranger than the rest of the stuff Freddie Galotti is usually declaring over Panic Radio.

“Dad? What did that woman mean when she said, ‘he’ll fulfill the prophecies’? What prophecies?”

His dad shakes his head.

“Oh, that’s nonsense – malarkey, you know? As insubstantial as a jellyfish.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“Okay, but the way you’re saying this lets me surmise that it’s one of these things that’ll go on the stuff-I-really-should-have-known-about pile. You know. When all things have gone to hell – which, as I am constantly reminded could happen any second, so…”

“Stiles – there’s no such thing as prophecies about a Spark. There’s just stories. And stories are alive – they keep changing, they can be read against the grain. Okay?”

Stiles tilts his head to the right, thinking about it.

“Okay,” he says, not convinced.

 

 

 

Derek doesn’t pick him up that morning just as he’d announced – and neither does the sheriff’s deputy, Jordan Parrish.

Instead, a dark-skinned woman dressed entirely in black, from leather jacket to combat boots, is waiting next to a dark limousine that looks a lot like the United States’ president’s armored Cadillac. That’s – it couldn’t be, Stiles is pretty positive that regular people can’t get those.

Then again, he’s not regular people.

He’s not even people, strictly speaking.

He sighs and continues walking, eyeing the woman. She’s beautiful, rather short, with long, wavy hair and a piercing gaze.

Her right hand is in the pocket of her black pants, her left is clutching a thin, elongate bundle, like a long stick wrapped tightly in black silk. Stiles tries to not stare at it – or at the scars that stretch across her throat and cheek all the way up to her right eye as he climbs into the car.

They look a lot like claw marks and Stiles instinctively knows they’re from a werewolf.

It’s like Derek said, Stiles’ Spark senses are growing stronger and stronger.

He smiles a dreamy smile.

Derek…

“You slept well? Because you don’t look like you did,” the woman says. She sits down opposite him and buckles up. Then she knocks on the partition separating the back of the car from the driver and the car starts moving.

“I’m Braeden. I’m your new personal bodyguard.”

Stiles extends his hand, but rather than taking it, Braeden just looks down at it.

“Sorry, but I’d rather not touch you. You see, I have experience with working for Sparks and I’m familiar with flesh memory.”

Stiles withdraws his hand, looking embarrassed.

Right – flesh memory.

Why Stiles can’t eat meat or basically any kind of regular food – other than what Mrs. Allen prepares for him.

The eerie ability of a Spark to pervade every fiber of another creature’s being, just by touch.

What Stiles accidentally did to Allison.

Doesn’t happen every time he touches something or someone, but every time it does, he feels like getting struck by lightning, and he doesn’t know how to prevent it, he can’t control it. Yet.

“You – protected Sparks before?”

Braeden nods.

“But never a newly awakened one because that would have been about thirty years ago and I would have been too young then, so – this is a first for me. And truly an honor.”

She grins at him.

Then raises her eyebrows and shrugs nonchalantly.

“I am the best though. And I have protected Alphas. Young ones, too.”

Which reminds Stiles of Derek again – and of the fact that he wants to touch Derek.

And kiss Derek.

Man… he wishes Derek were here.

“How do you protect a Spark?” Stiles says.

“With Anything Goes, of course.”

Braeden smirks.

She gives the black bundle on the seat next to her a light tap.

“That’s your weapon of choice?”

Braeden nods.

“What is it?”

“You’ll see. I hope later than sooner, but, you know. You’ll never know.”

She smiles again and Stiles once again admires her beauty. She seems calm and independent and perfectly unimpressed by his presence and her kindness genuine which, of course, makes Stiles instantly like her. The only other people who treat him like a regular person are his dad, Deaton and Mrs. Allen.

He’d like to say Derek, but –

Right.

Derek.

“Excuse me for a moment.”

Stiles takes his phone out and finally gives in to his urge to send Derek a text – only one, a very short one, just to tease him a little.

He opens a Whatsapp conversation and grins down at his phone as he types,

_> >Parrish picked me up. Heading to school now._

He wants to follow it up with a hundred question about where Derek is, what he’s doing and does he remember their kiss and did he like their kiss and is he even thinking about Stiles at all, but – no.

Composure.

This little lie should be enough to tease Derek into answering him. After all, he’d been very outspoken the night before about _not_ wanting Parrish to pick Stiles up. He couldn’t _not_ react to that.

Right?

Stiles looks up when Braeden snorts out a chuckle.

“Mh?”

“They were right. You have a very expressive face.”

“They?” Stiles says, but Braeden’s pocket starts buzzing – her phone, that is – and Braeden fishes it out of her leather jacket and unlocks it.

“Yes?”

She listens for a moment while Stiles is staring down at his display, waiting even though he knows it’s stupid to expect an instant reaction to his message.

“…no. I did – of course I did, are you kidding? Yes, all is well – can you please trust me for one second?”

Braeden snorts and ends the call.

“Was it 'they'?” Stiles says with a smirk and Braeden laughs.

“Well, yes, you could say that – it was the Alpha.” She rolls her eyes, but there is a warm smile on her lips.

“What?”

Stiles flicks his eyes down to his Whatsapp. His words are still just sitting there, unanswered.

“You would think that after all the years we’ve known each other he’d know what I can and can’t do, but no, he keeps checking in on me every five minutes.”

Stiles doesn’t know why, but at Braeden’s words something nasty pools in his stomach.

There’s just something to this beautiful woman saying 'Alpha' in this familiar way that makes him wish he’d not finished that plate of eggs, so he wouldn’t feel so sick all of a sudden.

“You know – the Alpha? Like, I mean – you said, you’ve known him for a while?”

Braeden smiles almost absent-mindedly and the scars on her cheek move, a smile that’s not for Stiles and that makes him want to clutch his hands over his ears, but Braeden is already talking again and there’s no way those words can be made unheard, taken back,

“Derek, yeah… Derek Hale. He’s my fiancé.”

 

 

 

Fiancé, he’s her fiancé.

The words are echoing in Stiles’ head when the car pulls up to the school.

“Are you alright?”

Braeden gazes intently at his face, clearly worried.

“Is it – do you feel unstable? Because I have the order to instantly get you-“

“No,” Stiles cuts her short. He knows what she was going to say – he knows because he listened in on all of his dad’s phone calls about safety measures and emergency plans, feeling slightly guilty but also sort of entitled to the knowledge. It was about him, after all. If his dad didn’t want him to eavesdrop, then maybe he should just be open with Stiles and tell him up front that people might basically tackle him to the ground as soon as he showed even the remotest signs of what they call a ‘surge’ – a flare of his spark power – and bundle him up and, depending on the circumstances, either take him straight to the Alpha or, if he should be unavailable, then as far away from town as possible, or, should there be no time, to Dr. Calvin’s lab who had her own way of dealing with things.

Apart from the fact that no emergency plan ever sounds reassuring – Stiles feels like he can’t bear hearing Braeden say Derek’s name again, so he just moves away from the car, away from her.

Her fiancé.

Surely that couldn’t be true.

Didn’t Kate say the same thing?

Besides, wouldn’t this be generally known?

And didn’t Derek say that –

But a mean little voice in the back of his mind is telling him that _technically_ Derek only said _Kate_ wasn’t his fiancée. Not that he didn’t have any, even though – come one, give him a fucking break. That’s usually kind of implied, isn’t it? You don’t go around like, ‘ _Oh, hey, is this girl your finacée?’_ and then he’d say _‘No,’_ and you’d continue, ‘ _What about this one? Are you going to marry this one?’_ And so on until you’ve covered every single remotely human creature in the entire fucking universe.

No.

That’s not how you fucking do this.

“Hey, woah!”

Braeden catches him just in time before Stiles collides head-on with a boy who suddenly shot up seemingly out of nowhere right in front of him.

“Stiles,” her arms curl around his chest, pulling him flush against her, “Are you okay? You’ve got to talk to me.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, “I was just – sorry, just spacing out, I guess…”

Braeden lets out a sigh of relief, then she acts very quickly. She rounds Stiles – even though ‘rounds’ really isn’t the correct term for the way she winds herself around his body in a split second like an eel – and then she’s in front of him, shielding him from the guy.

And a strange guy it is.

He’s a beta which is easy to tell for Stiles now even though most of his features are hidden by a purple hood that is pulled deep into his face and – what’s up with that? Something about the color strikes Stiles as - odd. But the guy, he's already gone, vanished, sucked back up by the crowd.

Stiles really was spacing out – not a Spark thing, just a really annoying ADHD thing that has, granted, already gotten a lot better – so everything, the whole reality, complete with colors and noise and smells comes crashing back in on him now, accompanied by all those other sensory perceptions that only Stiles has, the shimmering webs and cores like a thousand melodies and – as always, it’s too much.

He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again.

Maybe if he hadn’t stumbled out of the car like a complete idiot, he could have taken the time to adapt to crazy scenes like this beforehand. Like, mentally prepare himself. Sounds like a good idea in theory.

He’d been so eager to get out of Braeden’s way, so abruptly and, he has to admit, stupidly jealous of this woman, and hurt, yeah, add hurt to that, that he’d not even seen the hordes of students gathered in front of the school.

“No touching!” Braeden hisses and then she’s not alone anymore, there’s about ten of the gas-masked, bulletproofed troopers, betas as well as humans with vests that have a core of mountain ash, Stiles can sense its living structure vibrate beneath the black synthetic fabric, humming along with it, and the guys are roughly pushing the students back, forming a circle around Stiles and Braeden and moving along with them.

“What took you so long,” Braeden hisses at the guy closest to her, then she keeps shouting, “Out of the way! No touching! _Move_!”

Stiles wants to ask Braeden what she was talking about, whether she really meant what she said about Derek or whether, maybe, he misunderstood her, but he also wants to clutch his hands over his ears and press his eyes shut, it’s too much, too much.

Braeden pulls him along with her and then they’re inside the school.

The hallway is oddly empty. Everyone seems to have been waiting outside.

The first thing Stiles sees when Braeden gives him some space again, finally, is the list of Gerard’s bullshit rules, a blown-up version, framed – fucking _framed_ – and put up on the wall at eye-level, right by the entrance doors.

In front of it, Adrian Harris, a piece of cloth in his right hand that reeks of gasoline and feverishly wiping at the glass, trying – unsuccessfully, it looks like it – to erase the latest act of school vandalism, the words that someone sharpied across the surface:

 

_what happened on the lacrosse field ???_

 

Stiles swallows.

And looks away.

 

 

Then, suddenly, there is commotion behind them.

Braeden whirls around, and Stiles hopes that she’s really as good as she claims because her stick whips through the air, just barely missing his shoulder.

A second later, she relaxes and huffs out, “Tss… Derek’s here. Come on, Stiles – perfect time to get you to your first class without – _accidents_.”

Stiles can’t even shrug.

The fact that Derek wouldn’t have the time to pick him up, but he would have the time to do his stupid everyday dance with the betas at school just makes him – feel so small.

And kind of sick.

He can’t even feel guilty about being petty anymore, he just gives in to his hurt.

He starts marching toward the classroom, only lifting his gaze from the tiles once – and it is to watch with surprise as Adrian Harris drops his cloth and the bottle of cleaner that immediately spills all over the tiles and starts spreading a penetrant, chemical smell, and races toward the exit like he's trying to be the annoying kid who _aces_ the fire drill or something.

Toward Derek - like Harris woke up this morning and forgot he's a wendigo. And now, like everyone else, he's dead set on taking Derek's Alpha powers.

Weird.

 

 

 

“Oh… my God,” Allison says 5 minutes later – after Stiles’ heated 3-minute discussion with Braeden who insisted on sitting with Stiles in class and only gave up on her plan,  _‘At your own risk, Spark!,’_  because Stiles threatened to jump out _that_ window over _there_. He knows Braeden just wants to protect him - is getting paid to do it anyway - and it really might be for his safety, but then – he’s a Spark for God’s sake.

He can take care of himself. He's powerful!

He doesn’t feel like he is, but he _is_ – probably. Right? Like the day before when he magically tapped into his powers and faced the crowd and simply _dealt_ with it?

They can’t really harm him and he knows that.

So Braeden is outside somewhere now, muttering about ‘Teenagers…,’ and Allison is watching the fight outside in front of the school, and Scott – Scott is eyeing Stiles and when he meets his best friend’s gaze, Scott immediately smirks.

And Stiles’ cheeks turn red.

No words need to be spoken. Scott knows.

About Derek.

And Stiles.

And so, apparently, does Jackson because he throws Stiles a dark look from where he’s sitting before flicking his eyes back down at his phone, and somehow, oddly, their acknowledgement makes Stiles feel a little better. Almost like it makes Derek’s touch more real, less like a dream.

Like he really meant it and Stiles – still thinks he did. His jealousy, his fears about what Braeden said - it's probably _all_ in his head.

The only other person in the room is Lydia Martin who is carefully pretending like Jackson isn’t there. Or even exists.

At all.

She joins Allison by the window and puts her hand on her best friend's shoulder.

“Yup. That does look pretty bad.”

“Why the hell does it look like everyone’s out there, like – not just betas.”

“Because they are, Alli,” Lydia says curtly. “This is basically everyone who’s allowed on school premises. Except for some of the teaching staff obviously, and some,” with the first side-glance at Jackson, “… _losers_ and cowards. But other than that…”

“But… good God, Derek just knocked Harris out,” Allison gasps, torn between shock and glee. “He couldn’t steal Derek’s Alpha powers, he's a wendigo – but – but why would he…”

Stiles closes his eyes.

He has an idea.

“Didn’t you read the paper today?” Lydia says.

“I did, but-” But Lydia mercilessly waltzes over her best friend’s answer.

“Then you might have understood that, if you ask most people, the only obstacle in their way between them and a certain _Spark_ ,” raising her eyebrows at Stiles, “is the Alpha who, traditionally, has been proven to be the strongest anchor to a Spark and hence – the chosen mate.”

She crosses her arms in front of her chest and whips her strawberry blond hair back over her left shoulder.

“That’s horrible. As if Stiles doesn’t have a say in the matter at all…,” Allison says and she flinches at the sound of breaking bones, so loud that they can hear it up here, through closed windows. “Oooh… why would anyone….”

“Dimwitted fucks,” Jackson mutters, almost despite himself and he immediately presses his lips together when Lydia shoots him a hostile glare.

“Well… let them,” Scott says. He squeezes Stiles’ shoulder with his hand and gives him a warm smile. The creature on Scott's Tuesday-sweater that Stiles recognizes as George, the Friendly Uni-ped, a popular children’s book character here in Beacon Hills, is smiling at him as well.

“Let them beat in each other’s heads – they'll heal.”

“Not all of them,” Allison says, but Scott shrugs.

“Every were around here grew up with watching out for weaker creatures like humans, animals... It’s like – organic to them. They’re not really gonna hurt them. And the Spark – will make his own choice.” And he winks at Stiles.

“Say,” Lydia suddenly says. She steps closer to Stiles, tilting her head to the right as if she’s trying to figure something out.

“Stiles – are you doing anything different?”

Stiles immediately jerks his head to the left and right in a perfectly ungraceful movement and his face heats up.

“You smell - _different_. Is it a new aftershave, or…”

“It’s the Alpha,” Jackson suddenly says. He has pulled himself out of his chair, is walking over to them now, ignoring that Lydia narrows her eyes at him.

“You _smell_ like – him,” Jackson says. He is working his jaws as if he’s uncomfortable and borderline mad that he has to talk with Stiles even though – totally the dude’s own choice. No one asked for his opinion, anyway.

To a certain extent, Jackson’s a mystery. Sometimes, there is not telling what he's thinking.

Allison is frowning and Scott is suppressing a smirk – and Stiles gets it.

Scott is his anchor and he’s an Alpha now – and a True Alpha, too – of course he would know exactly what Derek’s scent on Stiles means, what kind of a touch was necessary to leave it on him, but as a beta, Jackson wouldn’t be able to pick up the delicate differences. He’d just be able to pick up that Stiles smells like Alpha.

And Lydia?

Stiles knows that banshees have heightened senses, but Lydia's strength is really her vision and ears, not her nose, so of all supernatural creatures she’d be the one who’d be able to decipher the least amount of information.

Poor Allison, the only human among them, is left completely clueless, and she turns from Jackson to Lydia to Stiles and eventually to Scott, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You mates now?” Jackson says in a clipped tone, almost angrily, and Stiles resists the urge to close his eyes.

Jackson, you goddamn idiot.

This is _exactly_ what he said when they were alone in that classroom – and it’s the perfect thing to say to hurt Lydia even more.

When no one answers, Jackson grits out, “Well, then you’re easier than I thought you are, Stilinski, but – and this is me warning you – Hale may be an Alpha, but he’s not a fucking God. And he’s not good for you.”

“And I guess you’d be the judge of that?” Stiles says with a frown.

Jackson opens his mouth to spit out an angry retort – why he’s angry though, no one knows – when the classroom door opens.

Their heads turn, but the girl who walks in now is looking directly at Stiles and he can tell that she’s not seeing anyone else.

It’s the girl from the day before – not the crazy naked one – oh, God, he needs to tell Scott about that, he almost forgot, how the hell could he forget about that?! – but the pretty beta with the long blond hair.

She’s wearing combat boots, a ratty bomber jacket and purple eye shadow and looks kinda badass. Fearless, really, the way she marches into the classroom and right over to where Stiles is standing by the window. Jackson who immediately recognizes her – of course, she beat the crap out of him after all – visibly stiffens, but apparently his punishment was bad enough for him to not want to get his revenge.

Look at that.

Jackson Whittemore might be a sensible guy after all.

Who’d have thought?

When the girl is in front of Stiles, Allison and Scott both instinctively draw closer to him, but the girl rolls her eyes.

“Relax. I’m not gonna jump him.”

A faint shade of natural red around around the edges of her pink rouge, as if she had, in fact, considered it.

“I just wanted to get my fair chance of introducing myself after – kinda… creeping you out. Sorry.”

She shoots a quick side-glance at Jackson as if wanting to make clear that she wasn’t apologizing to _him_ and Stiles can practically _see_ the veins swelling beneath the skin on Jackson’s throat, let alone sense his anger.

The girl ignores him.

She gives her strawberry pink gum two or three chews, then beams at Stiles.

“I’m Willow. And I'm here to tell you that I want to court you. Fuck Gerard.”

 

 

 

Stiles accepted the tiny puppet Willow made for him more out of embarrassment than anything else – what are you going to do when someone practically shoves a gift into your hands, tells you you’re really cute, then salutes and marches off with a self-confidence you wish you had and the kind of grace mixed with a devil-may-care-attitude you wish you could pull off?

Looking at it now, the little doll, the thing is adorable though. She called it "one of those sprites from deep time" which Stiles will have to look up as soon as he gets the chance, but right now he is staring at the rows of students entering the classroom one after the other and almost half of them people Stiles has never seen in his entire life.

Is that – he kinda feels like he’s losing his mind. Or his memory. But he isn’t, he couldn’t – is he?

God, what the hell-

“Relax,” Scott mutters, “They’re all new students.”

And Stiles does, he relaxes.

Only a little though.

He remembers something that Freddie Galotti said this morning on Panic Radio, along the lines of ‘hundreds of families rushing to move to Beacon Hills’ and, what was that?

Be close to the Spark.

To him, Stiles.

While others are leaving, just as rashly, and as fast as their cars could get them out of this dump, to evade what they felt was certain death.

Also because of him.

Because a newly awakened Spark can’t be trusted.

Because he’s not in control.

It’s bad enough that Stiles has practically caused an episode of mass migration and that the new students – the school had to take them in until classes were full and all capacities exhausted – pay little to no attention to the lessons and more or less keep staring at him; that at least one of the new girls is so unsettled to be in the same room with him that she can’t stop shaking and eventually has to be removed from class so she can calm down – all this is already bad, feels uncomfortable, but – what’s not helping is this.

What’s not helping at all is the fact that, ten minutes before the bell ends the first period, and for the first time in several days, Stiles’ spark moves inside of him.

It rears its head, and Scott shoots shim a look of surprise, then shock, then fear, and then Stiles is struggling, fighting.

They both are.

 

 

 

 

If this were the first time, okay?

He’d already be gone.

This time it's stronger than Stiles has ever felt it before. The sheer power of his spark pulsating inside him, vibrating through his body almost knocks him off his feet and if Scott wasn’t there – if Stiles didn’t have his True Alpha by his side, that would be it.

He just knows.

The fact that Scott isn’t letting go of his hand or his shoulder or his wrist now, but is always maintaining skin contact, not even afraid of Stiles’ fingers, of flesh memory because, really, what could they have to hide from each other – this is the only reason Stiles isn’t already gone.

Scott is a powerful filter.

Or, maybe, a funnel.

Because Stiles feels like, without giving in, he’s merely winding himself up, pulling his powers back down further and further like a spring and the more time passes during which nothing happens the future is promising to be even more chaotic, even more devastating than it would have been only a moment ago.

Oh, this is bad.

This is really, really bad.

It’s only when Braeden forces his head up so she can meet his eyes and Stiles can see the _inside_ of her head, every single piece of it, tissue, bone and fluids down to the deep structure of her DNA, that Stiles realizes just how bad.

And he understands that he might be beyond that point already, the point to give in and re-balance. Level out, you know?

What if it’s not possible anymore?

What if-

“Shshsh… relax,” Scott is saying. He’s brushing his thumb over the back of Stiles’ hand that he’s clutching in his own, wolfed-out one. This time though Scott won’t be enough.

“Derek,” Stiles sobs, then bites down on his lower lip. It’s true though. They’re going to need Derek.

Derek who scent-marked him. Who kissed him like he – like he was in love with him, almost.

Derek who never got back to him, no message, not one, and it’s already past noon.

Derek who might have a fiancée.

A fiancée who says, “I’ll get him. Stay here, don’t move!” and then jumps up and starts running along the rows of books, MI and MH and ME in reverse alphabetical order as if she’s backtracking the history of the entire Western civilization framed in the Greek and Latin alphabet to get to the exit.

Where they are is in the library.

Where they _should_ be – is at lunch, in the cafeteria, but on their way there, Stiles realized he wouldn’t make it, that he had to sit down and direct all his senses at it, at this. Keeping balance.

Something is telling him that he’s not doing it right though.

Never before has his spark left him so utterly devoid of physical strength, but still conscious.

“Why can’t you walk?”

But Stiles is only shaking his head like, _no, not now._

_I can’t talk._

And then someone else does, and it’s neither Scott nor Allison, but Corey.

All of a sudden the boy appears in front of them, panting.

He must have been running.

“There you are, thank _God_ , everyone was talking about how they’d seen you walk into this special room that Gerard has allegedly reserved for you and, I mean, that’s so ridiculous, just the idea of it, and then, when I walked past the library, I could smell – Stiles?”

Corey stops and then just stares at him.

“What… is it… is it happening?” he whispers after a few moments.

Scott doesn’t respond – he can’t, really, but Allison gives Corey a sympathetic look and nods, once.

“Oh…” And the wendigo’s cheeks turn ashen. “Oh… oh, God, I…”

But then he squeezes his eyes shut and gives his head a shake as if to brace himself.

“Okay, this is probably… not your first priority right now, but – I thought – I was wondering – have you seen this?”

And he extends his hand. It’s clutching a sheet of paper, indigo blue with barely discernible black print on it. When Stiles just continues to glare at him with that blank stare, a purple flicker in his eyes that makes Corey quickly avert his gaze and take a deep breath and press his hand up to his mouth, he waves it in Scott’s face instead who doesn’t react either.

Allison finally takes it from him. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor to Stiles' left. Her eyes widen as they fly over the page.

“Oh, my – _shit_.”

The crease on Scott’s forehead deepens.

“What is it, Alli?”

“Oh, not _now_ – _why_ now?! I-,” turning her head to Scott, “Sorry, I – this is – it looks like. Well. Aunt Kate.”

“What?!”

“Apparently, she wants the whole school to attend another one of her ridiculous battles. Look,” and she holds the blue flyer up in front of his face so Scott can read it, too, “it says ‘Mate Wanted! Stiles Stilinski Picks a Mate! Fight for the Favor of the Young Spark! Grand Contest in Anything Goes, Today, 3:30 p.m. Lacrosse Field of Beacon Hills High.’”

She snorts out a laugh that sounds more desperate than joyful.

“And down here, like in the fine print it says. ‘Hosted by the Argent-School of Anything Goes. Bring your own weapon. No cameras allowed.’”

She drops her hand with the flyer down into her lap.

“I can’t believe it.” Then, angrier, “I cannot fucking believe it! Corey!”

“Mh?” Corey jumps a little.

“Where did you find this?”

“I don’t really know. I think someone handed it to me.”

“Okay.” Allison jumps up. “Scott, Derek will be here soon and – I’m sure all will be well. I’m sure. I hope. I’m pretty certain.”

“Where are you going?” Scott says. He’s holding Stiles’ hand a little tighter. Stiles is only barely responsive at this point.

“Getting my crossbow. I’ve _got_ to stop this.”

 

 

 

Scott is doing a great job.

When Stiles is suddenly aware of shelves of books around him he realizes that he’s still suspended by thin thread. Scott’s hand, mostly.

His presence.

The room is folding up and unfolding around Stiles, and he is peeling himself over and across, one cell at a time, fraying into a thousands upon thousands of threads fanning into different dimensions like a some kind of weird four-dimensional octopus, but the urge, the power, to take the library with him is not quite there yet. It’s more like play.

A game.

He’s looking into Scott’s eyes and listening to him muttering feverishly – to Stiles, or to himself maybe, “Come on, buddy, come _on_ , we can do this, I _know_ we can, come on, focus, _focus_ …,” and at the same time he is aware of the deep sea around him 480 million years ago.

What that age of graceful giants, monsters of the sea, feels like.

But there is no pull yet. Not from him at least.

They could still make it. If Stiles could find a way out – backtracking, unwinding, that is.

And then of course, before even the hint of a thought on how to can form around him, the worst thing happens.

“ _There you are!_ ”

Scott’s head snaps up.

This has got to be a joke.

It’s Adrian Harris and he has what looks like a fist full of scrunched up indigo blue flyers.

Oh – brother.

“Mr. _Stilinski_. I want – an _explanation_!”

His eyes flick from Stiles’ face down to his hands and feet. Harris seems to take in his whole figure, the way he’s hunched over, head resting on his knees.

The biology teacher seems to be taken aback for a moment.

“Your heart…,” he starts, then stops himself. His eyes widen, but neither Scott nor Stiles can see it. Nor do they care.

At all.

“Principal’s office. _Now_!” Harris hisses.

Scott looks up at him like, _Dude, you gotta be kidding me_ , but Harris simply extends his hand and screws his claws around Stiles’ upper arm. Then, with surprising strength, he pulls him to his feet. Scott exclaims in outrage and quickly jumps up as well, clutching his best friend around the chest – but then, suddenly and fucking impossibly, Stiles stands.

“I can walk,” he mutters and Scott allows himself to breathe out.

And then they're walking, the strangest procession since Madame Bovary’s wedding, probably.

A part of Scott is furious at Harris for being so incredibly stupid – stupid and fucking delusional for thinking he can dig up a landmine and carry it to the principal’s office and drop it on Gerard’s desk without anything happening.

Then he wonders how much of Stiles’ present condition Harris can actually grasp. He sure can feel Harris trembling next to Stiles like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin, his heart racing inhumanly fast. Like he's agitated, afraid.

And, when they’re at the library door, students stopping left and right and staring that Scott decides he doesn’t give a fuck.

This is also when he realizes that he’d been masking Stiles’ presence – and pretty successfully, too. It's why no one knew they were in the library, none of the betas at least.

Because Scott can do stuff like that. Because he's a True Alpha.

And Scott has hope again, now. They’ve come this far, achieved more than he’d ever have thought possible. There is no telling what a walk over to the principal’s office might do to Stiles and his ability to concentrate – and his own, as a matter of fact. Not to mention the fact that they are going to have to face Gerard in a minute. But maybe Scott can still do this. Maybe he can save Stiles, all of them.

But no way could he take Stiles and run.

It might be the last thing anyone of them would do.

And then this:

If they’re walking away from that shelf, that row of books, the library – where they’re _supposed_ to be, where they said they _would_ be – how the hell are Braeden and Derek going to find them?

 

 

 

 

Then again, every shitty situation has a silver lining.

In this case, it’s Derek sitting in one of the chairs opposite Gerard.

As soon as Scott spots him, he can feel a massive weight being lifted off his shoulders. Stiles seems to become lighter instantly and Scott can almost feel him straighten his back a little. Become clearer.

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” Scott mutters as he shoves Stiles into the seat next to Derek.

“How disrespectful,” Gerard says, his Christmas-themed Hawaiian shirt in ridiculous contrast to his authoritative demeanor. “You are to acknowledge and greet the principal properly when you enter his study!”

The entire situation is serious and it is a matter of life and death that Scott get Stiles out of there together with Derek ASAP but oddly, all he can think of is how Gerard has finally snapped and started talking about himself in the third person.

But then, it was always just a matter of time, really.

“What’s with him,” Gerard says, meaning Stiles, but he doesn’t get an answer.

Derek’s eyes are glowing Alpha-red. They’re set on Stiles’ face and when he reaches for his hand, he whispers, “Braeden called me, I thought waiting here would be the fastest way to get to you because Gerard told me he called you in.”

“What are you muttering about?” Gerard barks. “I demand to know what you are talking about! This is unheard of. Alpha!”

Derek’s forehead creases in annoyance, but he only says, stiffly, “Principal, with all due respect, I will not be talked to like this either. I may not be a teacher at this school, but I am still,” and at this his aura of power starts swelling until Scott can almost touch it, “ _the Alpha of this town_.”

His head turns so abruptly that Gerard flinches and, yes, if Scott is not mistaken, he even shrinks a little under the Alpha’s gaze.

Is it possible?

“I’d ask you to say what you have to say, so I can take Mr. Stilinski with me. I came to pick him up.”

“This is-” Gerard starts but whatever adjective he meant to follow that up with – outrageous, disrespectful, insolent, positively Machiavellian – never makes it to his lips. Derek’s steady gaze and his aura of raw power that is filling the room seems to cause Gerard’s words to get stuck in his throat.

He makes a strange noise, something like _rooh_ or _graaw_ , clears his throat and says, a little hoarsely, “Fine. Adrian!”

Mr. Harris hastens to round the desk and hand Gerard one of the indigo blue flyers, and then proceeds to stand there, awkwardly.

His eyes, Scott suddenly realizes, all of Harris’ senses, are directed at Stiles. He is watching him intently, but Gerard doesn’t seem to notice. The principal is studying the sheet of paper as if to pile up on anger that would help him face the Alpha.

A thought crosses Scott’s mind and he’s not sure whether it’s a relieving one.

‘Harris knows!’

Owing to his wendigo senses he seems to be able to tell that Stiles is on the verge of losing it – that they are literally on the brink of catastrophe right now.

Even though, the fact that both he and Derek are touching Stiles seems to be helping immensely.

Just a little longer, if they could keep this up for only a little longer, just a little more – and maybe they’ll be able to make it. Drag Stiles back.

Because there’s usually a time limit to these surges, right? Scott had asked his boss, Dr. Deaton, about it last night.

So, he reckons it should be another ten minutes or so – and they should be good.

Well, or dead.

One of the two.

Well - what a relieving thought.

Scott swallows and squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“It has come to my attention,” Gerard is saying now, “that a contest is being held – this afternoon – on school premises! To find a mate for,” pointing at Stiles as if he were accusing him of murder, “this young man here! For Stiles Stilinski!” He is tapping on the paper on his desk a few times as if wanting to poke a hole in it, right where Stiles’ name is.

“What?” Derek says and, yeah, he sounds really annoyed. Harris quickly hobbles over to where Derek is sitting and gives him one of the flyers.

“These were… distributed all over – _school_ this morning,” he mutters with a quick look down at Stiles’ face.

“They were – and I demand an explanation!” Gerard says gravely.

“An explanation,” Derek repeats, frowning down at the sheet.

“An explanation – so _I_ can start distributing,” and at this point his lips widen into a predatory grin, “ _punishment_.”

After a pause, “…where punishment is due.”

“Stiles did not distribute these,” Derek says, “You know that.”

“Do I though.” Gerard purses his lips and Scott gets this sudden urge to just punch him. Derek turns his head to meet his gaze and Scott sighs. Of course he knows what this means.

Cool it. We’ll be out of here in a minute. Keep it together until then.

He’s telling Scott because he can’t tell Stiles.

Because Stiles is not really here anymore, not entirely at least.

It is amazing to Scott how Gerard cannot feel it – the way the whole room seems to start moving in Stiles’ direction slowly, very slowly.

Harris seems to be able to because he suddenly starts, for no apparent reason, and turns to the headmaster.

“Principal, if I may… I’d suggest… _detention_ for Mr. Stilinski – _every_ Friday afternoon… for the next _three_ weeks. I will take him – to my office to make him _understand_ that… our _rules_ are not – up for _debate_. So this disagreeable… _issue_ will not take up more of your – _precious_ time…”

Scott cannot believe it.

He must have died and woken up in a parallel universe.

Harris – Adrian Harris, the specter of Beacon Hills High – is trying to manipulate Gerard Argent into dismissing Stiles from his office as soon as possible.

The very Gerard whose personal watchdog he is.

Scott meets his eyes, but Harris quickly averts his gaze.

Gerard has turned and is looking at him as if trying to determine whether he’s being bullshitted by his most loyal employee.

Then, luckily, he seems to decide that this couldn’t possibly be the case. After all, Gerard would be smart enough to tell, right?

So he says, “Fine. Adrian – take care of it. See to it that Mr. Stilinski here leaves the school after his last period. And no – funny business on the lacrosse field.”

He smirks, amused by his own joke.

“Not again, that is.”

 

 

 

“Thank God,” Scott breathes out when they’re out in the hallway. He still has his arm wrapped around Stiles’ back who can stand on his own accord, but is not responsive. There is a faint purple glimmer deep down in the back of his eyes.

“Can you fix him?” Harris says to Derek. The teacher looks paler than usual.

“We need a quiet, empty room,” Derek responds with a look down the hallway, “ _Now_!”

“The geometry classroom should be empty at this time. This way!”

The geometry classroom, Mr. Hurst’s territory, is only three doors down the hallway and when Derek throws the door open they find it deserted.

“Now make sure no one comes in here,” Derek barks at Harris who immediately turns and walks to the door.

“Oh and, Adrian?”

“Mh?”

“Stiles is _not_ getting detention.”

Harris’ look darkens, but he nods.

“Understood.”

And vanishes, pulling the door shut behind him.

“You were awesome!” Scott says, “You just saved us, man, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up.”

“It can still happen,” Derek grits out. “Scott-” and he turns his red eyes to him.

“I need you to focus now.”

Scott nods and presses his teeth together. He can do this, he can.

Stiles believed in him, he always does. It’s the reason Scott even has this power, he’s sure of it. It’s this magic thing that Stiles does – and has been doing even before he presented as a Spark. He slaps your shoulder and beams at you with this smile of his and – it’s like, no matter how you felt before, you know that all will be well.

Man, what Scott would give to see this smile on his best friend’s face right now.

But Stiles seems barely cognizant.

Sure, he is smiling, but it’s different, dreamily, kind of, as if he’d been drugged and Scott – it scares him.

It does and he’s trying to hide it, but he knows Derek can tell because he says, “Scott!”

“Y-yeah?”

Derek gives him a long look.

“You can do this,” he says calmly – and Scott feels that he can.

If Derek is here, it’s possible.

“Keep holding his hand – and that pull you’re feeling in your chest, as if he’s about to suck you into his vortex? Concentrate on it. And pull back. Try to level him out.”

“Okay,” Scott says breathlessly. “Right. What – are you gonna do?”

“ _This_.”

And he pulls Stiles into a firm hug. Then he places his hand in Stiles’ neck as if to scent-mark him.

He pushes Stiles’ blue shirt down with his index finger, only an inch.

Wolves out.

And draws his claw across his skin.

It draws blood instantly and Scott gasps, but he doesn't say aynthing.

He knows the cut is not deep and he can tell that it’s helping because Stiles seems to relax. His lids flutter shut over his purple eyes, the glow in them still very faint, only detectable with Alpha eyes.

Derek’s and Scott’s eyes.

But the thing is this.

Scott feels like – he’s intruding somehow.

The way Derek is holding Stiles?

It’s not how you would hold someone who’s just your friend.

And the infinite gentleness of his touch in Stiles’ neck.

Oh, yeah.

There is definitely something going on between them, something beyond an Alpha-Spark-relationship, whatever that might be anyway.

Scott had already been able to tell this morning, that they’d kissed and this – it’s the evidence Scott never really needed.

He’d leave the two alone, but – there’s still that saving-the-world-thing he’s got to do here.

But then Derek whispers, “It’s not working.”

“What?” Scott says, grabbing Stiles’ hand more firmly, “I don’t know why, but it’s not, I can – I can feel him slipping away…”

Scott can see the Alpha’s eyes widen. He is clutching Stiles to his chest as if his life depended don it – which is actually pretty accurate because it does, holy shit, it fucking does – but a moment later, Scott can feel it, too.

“But – but we did everything, we-”

“It’s not enough,” Derek grits out. “Why is it not enough?!”

And Scott knows.

Of course.

A hug wouldn’t be enough, of course it fucking wouldn’t.

A decent hug from Scott?

Yeah, that’d do it, but a hug from Derek?

Stiles doesn’t want a civil hug from him, nor a desperate one, what he wants, what it really needs to keep him here, is –

“Kiss him, you moron!”

“What?”

Derek turns his head.

“Kiss him!”

“But-”

“Just do it!”

“Why?”

Scott uses his free hand to run it through his messy curls. He can _not_ believe this guy.

“Because Stiles wants you to – that’s why!”

“But-”

“Do you want me to slam your heads together? Because I’ll do it, I swear, I’ll fucking do it!”

“Scott-”

“This is life and death here, man! You kissed him before, why can’t you do it now?!”

But Derek doesn’t even wait for Scott to elaborate.

An instant later, his lips are on Stiles’ and for a moment nothing happens.

Then, slowly, Stiles’ fingers in Scott’s hand twitch – and uncurl.

He draws his hand back, inch after inch, and Scott, staring down at it, is struggling with himself.

Should he let go?

Would it be safe?

Is Stiles anchored enough without Scott's soothing touch?

But before he can make a decision, Stiles hand is already gone, has flown up to Derek’s back and then they’re hugging and kissing and if Scott weren’t so fucking relieved, he’d be blushing and standing there awkwardly and trying to look away, but as it is –

He’s just glad.

He’s beaming at the two, his best friend and the Alpha of Beacon Hills, curled into each other like two snakes and he’s feeling blessed.

Stiles is here again. He’s fully human again except for that small glow, that purple flame Scott can sense inside of him at all times, but his aura has receded. And he’s Stiles again.

Just Stiles.

He’s also, apparently, even as a mere human, wildly unpredictable, because while he’d been kissing Derek hungrily a mere second ago, he’s shoving the Alpha away from him now and taking a step back, away from him.

Wiping his mouth with an angry glare in Derek’s direction who seems confused to say the least.

“You have a fiancée?!” Stiles yells and Scott says, “Oookay, I’m gonna be… yeah. Right.”

He turns on his heel and quickly walks out of the room.

So that’s what they meant - the strange vibes he’d been getting from Stiles all day. It had been an odd mixture of endorphins with an edge of sadness, two feelings Scott had thought were diametrically opposed to each other, but then, with Stiles, anything is possible.

So Derek had kissed him and then screwed up.

Scott leans against the closed door and lets out a sigh.

Figures.

A fiancée… and Stiles was not talking about Kate. There must be an understanding of some sort, he just hopes they can sort it out. If Derek ends up hurting Stiles Scott might have to kill him and – is there such a thing as a double-Alpha?

He’s hovering for a moment, listening to Derek voicing his confusion and decides that he really shouldn’t listen in. If Stiles needs him, he’ll let him know, somehow.

He turns to Harris who is coming running around the corner.

“Is Stilinski – are we – is it-”

“We’re good,” Scott says. “All is well. Crisis averted.”

“Oh – _God_ ,” Harris breathes out and to Scott’s utter horror, supports himself by holding on to Scott’s shoulder.

“I thought – when I _sensed_ that Stilinski was _transforming_ , I – good _God_ … that was – _terrifying_ …”

He lifts his head and his watery blue eyes meet Scott’s who hopes that Harris can’t sense him cringing at the touch.

Werewolves do _not_ like wendigos.

It’s an instinctual thing.

“I must say…,” Harris says pensively, slowly regaining his calmness, “It was _wrong_ of me to – _assume_ you’d be the classic… underachiever.”

“What?” Scott says back with a frown. He wishes Harris would remove his hand, but instead he’s just eyeing Scott as if he’d never seen him before.

“It’s – rather the _opposite_ , apparently. Mr. – _McCall_ … _Exceeding_ expectations, surprisingly… Yes.”

 

 

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“ _You didn’t call_ ,” Stiles says with emphasis on every word. He is glaring at Derek even though he wants to go back to that kiss they were sharing just a minute ago but – he’s just so angry.

“I didn’t call,” Derek repeats, puzzled. Then he runs his hand through his hair, his goddamn gorgeous hair, goddamn it!

Composure, Stiles.

Don’t let the angelic face draw you in, the dude gave you the silent treatment.

“It’s only noon, for God’s sake!”

“It’s past one,” Stiles insists.

“I’ve been up and working since six o’clock, when exactly should I have given you a call?! Usually, you’d wait at least 24 hours to do things like that. _Jesus_.”

Stiles cheeks turn even redder.

He knows he’s being ridiculous, but he feels so hurt – and scared.

For Derek to drop him like a hot potato and turn to one of the beautiful women he seems to be constantly surrounded with. Like Braeden.

The expression on his face darkens.

“You could have given me a call instead of getting _Braeden_ to tell you that Parrish wasn’t driving me to school.”

“So he really didn’t? Drive you to school, I mean.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“No, you idiot, of course he didn’t. You heard what she said.”

Something nasty is pooling in his stomach again.

“And then she, like – fucking turned around and told me you’re going to marry her.”

There.

He said it.

Then he just stands there, blinking at Derek through eyes that are too moist, wiping at his cheek. He feels disoriented. Why are they here again?

He just knows that they were walking to lunch – which is odd because he’s really hungry. And he doesn’t remember trying any of the things Mrs. Allen packed for him.

Derek, meanwhile, is massaging his forehead with his knuckles.

“Stiles… I – I can’t believe I even have to say this out loud – Braeden is _not_ my fiancée!”

Stiles blinks, twice.

“She’s not.”

“No!”

“But-”

“I kissed _you_ , for God’s sake – Stiles, what do you think that meant when you – can go out and believe – _Jesus_ …” And he pulls up a chair and flops down in it. “This day is really draining me…”

“But… she sounded so – she was telling the truth!”

Derek lets out a long sigh.

“That’s because she kinda – was.”

The red in Stiles’ cheeks slowly gives way to an ashen paleness.

“What? But – you just said-”

“Look. Our fathers were very close. They made the match when we were just kids.”

He is gazing at Stiles earnestly.

The truth again.

The truth of his heart, that is.

“Braeden was my best friend growing up and – I didn’t know she was still holding on to that idea. We kinda – both laughed about it when we turned fourteen and after high school, we went our separate ways. I never made her a promise – of any kind. I dated Paige when Braeden was still around – she had boyfriends, too, for God’s sake! It was understood that we’d never follow up on our fathers’ stupid plan.”

Still pale, still digesting the initial shock, Stiles slowly starts thinking.

“So – she never said that to you? That she wants to marry you after all?”

Derek shakes his head.

“No! But then, maybe… maybe…”

He frowns – then facepalms.

“ _God_ , I’m such an _idiot_ … why didn’t I see it? The way she used to hover after she dropped me off – or the way she looked at me when-” But he trails off, apparently horror-stricken.

Stiles gives him a few moments.

Then he says, “Look, I’m – sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek says. He pulls himself out of the chair. “You could sense that she was telling the truth and that’s why you believed her. And if considered from a certain angle, there was a time when we really were promised to each other – but this kind of parental matchmaking is forbidden by the Constitution of Beacon Hills, so it never really had any value. I – should have told you about her.”

Stiles thinks about this for a moment.

“There wasn’t really time, was there,” he says with a lopsided smile. Between yesterday night and today, that is.

“With the – Sparkomania – and stuff. And then I go out and,” he stops. Thinks.

“Oh God… did I – was I just-”

Red spots start appearing all over his cheeks. Signs of acute agitation.

Stiles just remembered.

They were in the library and then – then he saw Braeden and Corey and Scott and Allison in exploded view like these drawings of engines, with every single one of their constituent parts exposed to his all-pervasive gaze and it was fascinating and deep and then he pulled the room a little closer, just to see better.

“Relax, all went well – Scott was there. He did an amazing job, really, that kid keeps surprising me. And we – got you back.”

Stiles is just staring at him with wide eyes, heart racing at the realization of what could have happened – what almost did happen – only ten minutes ago.

“I can’t believe I – I didn’t remember for a moment- everything – my memory – nothing really struck me as odd – for a moment.”

“Yes, I thought so. From what Deaton told me, that’s actually a good sign. It means-”

“-it means I’m starting to alternate between being human and being the Spark more easily and naturally integrating my Spark memories into my human ones,” Stiles finishes his sentences, repeating something Dr. Deaton had explained to him as well. “Until I can finally become both.”

After a short pause, “I wonder what that feels like… being both...”

Derek is in front of him now, smiling a warm smile, smelling fantastic, like mint and coffee and fresh clothes and leaves and toothpaste and, very faintly, like aftershave.

“I said that Scott keeps surprising me but, to be honest – this is nothing compared to what you keep doing to me.”

“What am I doing to you?”

Derek laughs quietly, looking so gorgeous Stiles wants to fist his hand into his hair and pull him close. Never let go.

“I don’t think I have the words, I-” and he looks up to meet Stiles’ gaze at this, “Quite frankly, you make me feel a little helpless. Out of control. It has been confusing since that moment I first came across you, on that sidewalk…”

“I remember.”

Like it was yesterday.

And then, a different lifetime. Ages ago.

“And all I thought was that you’re so – young and I was,” and a faint shade of red is actually appearing on Derek’s cheeks when he says this, “-struck by how – pretty you looked. And there was – something about you. It’s like I felt it – then. Like I felt drawn to you – to your spark.”

He has stepped up to Stiles and he is placing a light kiss on his lips.

“I – am sorry I’m such an idiot sometimes. We don’t know each other very well and we’re years apart – and worlds apart still, but – I’d want to try.”

After a moment, when Stiles does not kiss him back.

“You okay?”

“Mh,” Stiles nods and Derek pulls him into a hug. Then he puts his cheek on Stiles’ shoulder and whispers, “Holding you this close is – like a relief from pain. My Alpha wanted you so badly, I felt like I was going insane. I was terrified – of what I might do, how you’d make me feel. Right now I-” pulling him closer, inhaling Stiles’ scent, “I only want to be with you. My Spark.”

Stiles is not moving, he is not hugging Derek back.

He is paralyzed.

 

 

 

 

“Stiles – is everything alright?” Allison says two hours later when they’re walking down the hallway. Last period ended five minutes ago.

They’re on their way home.

Stiles has been deep in thought ever since he came back to the classroom. Since Derek kissed him on the lips, then on the forehead and then left him alone in the empty classroom.

“Mh,” he nods and then returns to his silence.

It’s odd.

He should be feeling happy. The guy he has a crush on wants him – there’s no denying it anymore. The thing Stiles thought was impossible, that a guy like Derek could be into a guy like Stiles, has come true.

But then, why is he feeling so - hollow?

Like a wendigo threaded his fingers into his chest cavity and pushed his heart out and left him empty on the inside.

It’s something Derek said.

Not one thing in particular, but… the way he called him ‘his Spark’.

And that his Alpha wanted him close.

And Stiles thinks – he understands. He never really understood before – the extent to which Derek is consumed by who and what he is as the leader of the Free Town of Beacon Hills.

But he understands now and the knowledge paralyzes him.

All he read – all the things Deaton and Mrs. Allen and his dad explained to him – everything he observed and made sense of by himself – it’s all falling into place now.

So that’s why Derek was so resistant from the very start – to the idea of taking Stiles as his mate. Because he felt drawn to him despite himself and he _knew_ it wasn’t because of Stiles. That he, Derek Hale did not really want _Stiles_.

It was because of his Alpha.

An Alpha desires the most powerful mate – because that’s what an Alpha is. A retainer for power.

And there is nothing more powerful around than a Spark.

A young Spark, unmated, ready to be claimed by Derek.

So Derek made peace with it – mostly because Stiles signaled that he wanted him, too, right?

And they both gave in to what their powers wanted, what they needed.

Because this is ‘The Way’.

How things are done. A Spark belongs with the Alpha.

Except – except this is not true for Stiles. Because Stiles?

He triggered Scott’s True Alpha potential and Scott became his anchor.

Stiles slams his locker shut and turns to the exit, walking alongside Allison and Scott both of whom keep shooting him glances.

Scott touches the back of Stiles’ hand lightly with his fingers and frowns.

He can feel the turmoil in his best friend’s chest, but if Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it, he can’t force him to.

All of a sudden, Stiles stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the hallway that is empty now. They waited a little longer in the classroom so Stiles wouldn’t have to face another round of stares and attempted touching.

Braeden is waiting for him outside.

But Stiles just realized –

“Derek did it.”

“What?”

Scott and Allison turn to look at him.

Lydia who is still busy at her locker throws a quick glance at Stiles, but then flicks them back to the books in her hand pretending that she isn’t listening.

“At least – he thinks he did it!”

“What are you talking about, man?” Scott is walking back to him. “Are you okay?”

“I… yeah. I think I just realized – Derek got it all wrong.”

Allison and Scott frown at each other, but neither of them answers.

“He thinks – he triggered my Spark powers because – because an Alpha needs a Spark. That is – _ideally_. The ideal mate for an Alpha is a Spark, it’s – it’s a biological thing. It’s not like he likes me or anything. He just – feels instinctually drawn to my power,” Stiles whispers and then his voice just ebbs away.

He is so sad – he doesn’t even feel like crying. All there is is sadness. Like now, with this truth unveiled, they can never really be together. They'll always just be Alpha and Spark.

Not Stiles and Derek.

Never Stiles and Derek.

“Stiles,” Scott says and he is looking at his best friend intently. “You know that’s not true – there’s more to it and you know that. You felt it. Hell, _I_ felt it. The dude,” meaning Derek, “I think he’s crazy about you.”

“It doesn’t matter if the whole thing is more complex,” Stiles says, corners of his mouth pulling downward. He’s feeling sick all of a sudden.

“If that’s what _he_ believes. And he does,” and he’s throwing his right hand in the air to signal helplessness.

“He doesn’t see _me_. All he sees – is the Spark of Beacon fucking Hills…”

“Oh, that’s bullshit,” Lydia Martin says loudly, apparently deciding to drop the act, and she slams her locker shut.

But before she can march over and lecture Stiles on whatever it is that she has on her mind, a group of girls has rounded the corner and they’re running.

They stop dead right in front of Stiles, panting, and then a brown-haired girl shyly lifts her eyes to meet Stiles’ gaze. Stiles can tell that she is trying to muster the courage to address him.

“I - I beg your pardon, Spark. We came here – as fast as we could because,” she starts, trying to catch her breath.

Stiles recognizes her.

“You’re Tracy – Corey’s friend.”

“Yes!” Tracy says and then, blushing, “I – I can’t believe you’d remember…”

Of course, Stiles remembers.

But not so much the fact that he saw her with Corey. What’s sort of stuck in his mind is that she shifted right in front of him, right here by the lockers, and then Erica shoved her to the ground. He’s not sure whether she remembers though, so he’d rather not mention it.

“It’s about Corey! He – he enrolled! For the contest, I mean. And Kate’s going to crush him or – or _someone’s_ going to crush him. Please, you have to – please help?”

Stiles turns to Scott and Allison, open-mouthed.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Why would he do something stupid like that?” Allison steps forward. “He knew this whole thing is a set-up – he’s the one who told us about it in the first place.”

Tracy shrugs, looking helpless.

“You don’t know what it’s like for – for people like us. Here at school.”

“For wendigos, you mean?” Scott says and Tracy nods.

“We’re being constantly bullied. People just don’t trust us and – since they saw Corey with you,” Tracy gives Stiles another shy look, “…they’ve been especially cruel to him. It’s like they’re jealous. So I think he thought – I think he felt like, if he entered his name to participate in the contest – people would start looking at him differently. You know… accept his friendship – with you.”

Stiles curses and turns to the double doors. Just a few feet and he’d be out of here and Braeden would take him home.

Then he turns back to Tracy and her two friends – both girls, both wendigos.

“Fuck. Okay…”

He made a decision and he starts walking over to his locker.

“What are you doing? Stiles?” Lydia says, sounding alarmed. She’s standing there, in the middle of the hallway, a pile of books in her arms. “You’re supposed to stay out of trouble! Alli?” Because Allison is pulling her own locker open and starts rummaging around in it.

“Just gett’n ma crossbow,” she says nonchalantly and Scott gives Lydia his most wolf-like grin.

“We’re going to get Corey out of there. That’s what we’re doing.”

 

 

 

 

“But – it’s forbidden!” Lydia hisses, pointing at one of Gerard’s framed catalogues of rules. He kept his promise and put the things up all over school, but it took only one day for students to walk past them as if they weren’t even seeing them anymore.

Lydia is trying to keep up with her friends. Allison shoulders her crossbow and Stiles is twirling his aluminum baseball bat in his right hand. Scott flicks his hand to make his claws come out.

“Come on Lyds, you said it yourself – it’s not like anyone is really keeping to the rules, right?” Allison says innocently. Lydia frowns.

“But – what about,” and she motions down the hallway, “Gerard!”

“What about him?” Scott says cheerfully.

“The guy is _crazy_ , he’s gonna-” She stops short.

Stiles heard it, too.

“What was that?”

They round the corner – and immediately catch on to what the problem is.

Everything looks normal. The hallway is completely empty _except_ –

Except for one _particular_ door.

The principal’s office.

“Wow. Someone really wanted to make sure, Gerard would stay in there.”

Stiles nods, impressed.

Not only did they nail his door shut – whoever ‘they’ are – they also piled up tables and chairs in front of it to make absolutely sure Gerard wouldn’t be able to get out and, say – stop the contest.

And the strange sounds they're hearing?

It’s Gerard who is trying to break through the door, his muffled voice spitting out curses and insults and swearing that he’s going to punish whoever is responsible for this.

“Well, I guess that’s one problem solved,” Stiles says. “You, er… wanna help your grandpa, Allison?”

Allison considers the door and tilts her head to the right like she’s thinking.

“Nah,” she says after a moment. “Not really.”

“Well,” Stiles says. “Okay then.” And they keep walking.

“Un- _believable_ ,” Lydia sighs, but then she follows them outside.

 

 

 

 

School is over for the day, but none of the students really left.

They’re all out here, on the lacrosse field, filling up the bleachers and camping out on the grass.

“You came!” Danny Mahealani says when he spots Stiles, Scott, Allison and Lydia.

“That’s fantastic! Great for the business. Everyone is betting on Willow, but with you here – she might get nervous.”

Stiles frowns. He can’t see anything, there’s hundreds of students blocking the view, but he can hear the crowd going _‘oooooh’_ and _‘aaaaaaah’_ and then something that sounds like _whack_. Like someone got slapped hard across the face.

“Ouch,” Danny makes a face like he’s in pain. “Next one down, I think. You guys wanna place any bets?”

“No,” Lydia says. She’s blinking like she’s not sure whether Danny is bullshitting her or not. “No, Danny. We do not want to place bets. We want this entire thing to stop!”

“We’ll just tell people that Stiles is not responsible for this and that even if you win you won’t get anything.”

Danny smirks.

“Well – good luck with that.”

“I think I get what Danny means,” Stiles sighs when Danny has turned away to continue accepting bets and selling – whatever it is he’s hiding in his jacket pockets. “How am I going to make them listen to me.”

Allison stares at him.

“Stiles, you’re the Spark! That’s how.”

“So – so, you mean just walk out there and…”

“Yes!” Allison says.

“Step out in the middle of the field and – and tell them to stop.”

“That’s it!”

“So just – get out there and – and address five hundred people.”

“Yes!” Scott, Allison and Lydia are saying in unison and Stiles squares his shoulders and clutches his baseball bat a little tighter.

Okay.

Okay, he can do this.

He’s the fucking Spark.

He can do this.

Just – just walk up there and –

“And there he is!” someone is yelling, voice magnified, coming at them over five different loudspeakers.

People are turning their heads and then they’re spotting him and they’re whispering to each other and pointing. The make way so he can pass through unhindered and walk out on the field.

“Our prize has arrived! Give it up for the Spark of Beacon Hills High,” the voice is purring and the crowd roars and claps. Stiles of course immediately knew who that annoying sing-song belonged to, but now he can see her, too.

It’s Kate Argent and she’s on the sideline at the other end of the field, holding a microphone.

A banner that says ‘Win the Spark-Contest’ in big clumsy letters is spanned behind her.

Allison lets out a cry of outrage when she spots it.

“Aunt Kate!! Is that why you borrowed my bedsheet?! That was my favorite!! I – no, Scott, don’t hold me back, I’m going to _kill_ her!”

Scott who has his arms wrapped around Allison grins in response, but he doesn’t release her.

Whether Kate heard her niece’s furious outbreak or not, Stiles can’t tell.

She simply continues, her voice booming over the lacrosse field, “To reiterate for everyone: the prize is a date with the Spark and the rules, well,” a girlish laugh that makes Stiles want to punch her in the face, “ _Hahaha_. There aren't any! And we have one contestant who is pretty tough to beat! She’s strong and brutal and so far, she’s knocked out every single challenger – and here she is – it’s _Willow Begaaaaaay_!”

The crowd cheers and the blond girl steps out onto the field in her bomberjacket and combat boots. Her eyes are glowing yellow and she’s exuding confidence. She beams at Stiles and lifts her arms and the cheers and yells grow louder.

“And our next challenger is,” Stiles can see Kate flicking her eyes down to a list she’s holding, “Corey Pearson, freshman year!”

At this point, Stiles is flailing his arms and yelling, “Stop!” but Corey is already walking out onto the field. He looks small and fragile and genuinely scared and –

Stiles cannot let this happen.

He simply can’t!

So he starts running and he arrives in the middle of the field before Corey does.

“Stop this!!” he yells and the crowd explodes. Stiles can hear shouts of ‘ _What did he say?’_ and _‘it’s him, look, it’s really him!!’_

He turns to Willow. “You _have_ to stop – you _can’t_ fight him – or anyone, I don’t want this!”

Willow is looking at him, a confused expression on her face.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Kate’s voice is saying over the microphone now. “I hear – the Spark is entering the contest himself. Can you believe this, guys?”

The crowd goes absolutely insane. Stiles can’t hear his own thoughts over the noise.

“Wait, that’s not what I said!” he’s shouting furiously, but he can see Kate smirk at him, all the way across the field and he knows it’s no use.

“Yes, yes, you’d like that, don’t you,” Kate says and the crowd falls silent again. “But – that’s against the rules.”

“I thought there are no rules!” Stiles yells. God, he wants to smack Kate to badly.

“The Spark cannot participate himself because – if he wins what would be his prize? No, no, no…”

Also, it would ruin Kate’s plan the intent of which is pretty clear to Stiles now. Earlier he thought this was all for Kate to lure him out here so she could fight him again, but when he remembered Derek’s matchmaking story, he had an idea. How can Kate ensure that Derek would be hers and hers alone without having her ass kicked repeatedly by the Spark?

Exactly.

By letting other people do the kicking which sounds exactly like something Kate Argent would do. By matching Stiles with some beta.

But how was she planning on getting Stiles to actually go on a date?

He’s shaking his head at her.

Twisted.

“Willow, please,” he starts, turning to the girl in front of him.

“You – you know my name,” she says, her face bloodied and heated turning a darker shade of red.

“What? Of course, I do.” She told him herself and besides, Kate just announced her so of course he’d know her name.

“So – let the fight – begin!” Kate yells, completely ignoring what’s going on on the field.

Which is Willow, considering Stiles for a moment, then smiling a sad smile.

“I won every fight, you know – I think I really had a chance.”

Not really, Stiles thinks, but then, she’s really sweet and, yes, if he’d never met Derek, maybe – maybe…

“But it’s okay.” She turns her head and lets the glow in her eyes vanish. They turn from neon yellow to bottle-green. “It’s okay.”

She sighs.

And starts walking away from him, over to the sideline. Then she turns around and, through the confused shouts and angry yells of the crowd, Stiles can hear her voice.

“I’m not giving up, you know!”

“Willow Begay chickened out,” Kate is saying now and she sounds irritated. “Too bad, such a pretty face – okay, so it’s Corey Pearson against – Vernon Boyd!”

Corey who’s just standing there looking lost, a few feet away from Stiles, is not meeting his eyes.

“Corey, come on,” Stiles is saying now. “Come on, that’s stupid – you’re going to get yourself killed!”

When a bulky beta strolls out to the field, a handsome guy with dark skin and sunflower-yellow eyes, Stiles swallows.

“Yes, definitely suicidal. Corey!”

“I have to!” Corey grits out. He sounds like he’s choking up and he starts wiping at his cheeks angrily. “I’m sorry, Stiles, I’m sorry…”

“Corey, come on… you’re my friend, I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Wh-what?” Corey says and sniffles.

“Of course you idiot, what were you – of course we’re friends!”

But then the beta is running toward them and – there’s something weird about him.

Stiles feels like he saw him before – and not too long ago.

He’s wearing jeans and a shirt, but Stiles seems to faintly remember his face halfway hidden behind a purple hood.

This guy is not like the other betas at school. He’s dangerous.

“Corey,” Stiles yells, and he’s ducking down and lifting his bat, ready to fight if necessary, but the beta is already attacking and he’ll have reached Corey before Stiles can. Curse his Spark powers. He _has_ to learn how to activate them whenever he wants to because what good are they when he can’t protect anyone? When he can’t stop something like this?

The beta takes a massive leap – but then he’s simply being plucked out of the air by a shadow flitting across the field.

A wave of relief washes over Stiles.

“Oh, thank God…”

Shouts of surprise and confusion from the crowd.

“It seems like,” Kate’s voice is saying – she sounds excited – “We have another contestant. But – who is he?”

The shadow is wrestling with Vernon Boyd on the grass, there are howls and roars and the sound of claws colliding.

After half a minute the two contestants fly apart.

One of them, Vernon Boyd, is fully wolfed out and he’s panting, holding himself in a position that Stiles recognizes as defensive stance.

The other one though.

A smile flits across Stiles’ face.

The crowd has fallen dead silent.

You could hear a butterfly bat its wings.

It’s Scott, but he’s changed.

Not to Stiles of course, but to the rest of the school. They’re all staring at him, unable to believe what they’re seeing.

Scott is not even ducking down, he’s just standing there, in one of his ratty sweaters, hair looking uncombed as always, and hand-me-down sneakers, but then, what they’re really looking at is –

Scott’s eyes.

They’re glowing a deep, pure shade of red.

Stiles smirks and he turns to enjoy the amazement on everyone’s faces. Since it’s not about him for a change, he’s amused.

Lydia looks shocked out of her mind. Allison next to her, however – not so much.

Ha, of course she already knew.

Kate looks like someone set her hair on fire and then, a little way over to the left, leaning against one of the loudspeaker poles – is Jackson Whittemore.

Stiles isn’t sure why it’s his face out of a mass of hundreds that draws his attention, but then Jackson turns his head and looks directly at him, as if he felt Stiles’ eyes resting on him.

And it’s strange. Stiles expected him to be furious – but he looks sad, more than anything else.

Then he averts his eyes down to his shoes and lets out a cheerless laugh that Stiles can see, but not hear, as if wanting to say _McCall? That’s ridiculous!_

There is no commentary from Kate when Vernon Boyd starts stampeding toward Scott again and, really, Stiles almost admires his courage. Well, or, stupidity.

And he can read the big question looming large on everyone’s face.

_Why is he an Alpha? Has this dude defeated Derek Hale?_

Scott doesn’t even bother to move. He just lets Boyd come to him and then, faster than anyone would have thought possible, the beta is on the ground. Scott is pressing his face into the grass, his claws firmly in his neck.

The beta is growling and snarling and kicking his feet, but there’s really nothing he can do.

Scott is an Alpha and infinitely stronger.

End of story.

 

 

 

It seems like not everyone sees it that way though.

When Scott starts dragging Vernon Boyd off the field, he suddenly finds himself surrounded by a row of betas who immediately start attacking. Scott drops Boyd’s leg and the beta jumps right back to his feet and joins the fight.

Stiles frowns at them.

Just what exactly is this about now?

“Idiots,” a low voice is saying next to him.

It’s Jackson Whittemore. He has walked over to where Stiles is standing and is considering Scott and his opponents with a shake of his head and arms crossed in front of his chest.

“They think they can take McCall’s power _and_ win a date with you. Win win,” he says with an arrogant smirk, “But then, this school is full of dimwitted, weak betas. I didn’t expect anything else.”

Stiles chooses to not dignify that comment with an answer. He has his hand on Corey’s shoulder who is looking small and sad. They really need to cheer him up a little and have a serious talk with him, but then Stiles doesn’t want to leave Scott’s side.

“It’s like they’ve never even heard of a True Alpha before,” Jackson is saying now which prompts Stiles, despite himself, to look at him in surprise.

“You knew?”

Jackson shrugs like it’s nothing to him.

“I guess I’m just that smart.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, I didn’t before, but, come on – McCall defeating Derek? The dude is just annoyingly anti-violence. He’s more sedate than Mahatma fucking Ghandi.”

Stiles keeps silent.

Jackson considers him for a moment, then he flicks his eyes over at Corey – then he lets out a sigh.

“Aw, fuck. Okay.”

He tilts his head to the left and right and lets his knuckles crack.

“Get your pathetic excuse for a windiigo out of here. But…” and he meets Stiles’ gaze, “Just so you know, I’m not doing this for McCall. It’s not like I want to become one of his stupid fucking betas, now that he has presented as a True Alpha.”

And with these words hanging in the air he marches out onto the field, fangs dropping, irises bleeding into a bright yellow color like someone spilled a bucket of paint over them and then he’s in the middle of the fight.

Stiles can hear him yelling at Scott, but the crowd around him is too loud, he can’t make out the words. It must have been something along the lines of Scott getting the fuck out of there because a minute later Scott is coming toward them, wiping the blood out of his face with the sleeve of his dirt-brown sweater.

None of it is his though. They couldn’t even bring their claws anywhere near his face.

As for the betas on the field, it seems like they don’t even realize that Scott isn’t there anymore. Even though he’s just another beta, Jackson is doing a pretty good job.

“Let’s go,” Scott says and he puts his hand on Corey’s other shoulder and they start walking.

“Allison – Lydia?” Scott says when they pass them by – and now the students aren’t just staring at Stiles. They’re staring at both of them.

Allison nods at Scott, but Lydia says, “You go ahead, Alli. I’ll – stay for a bit.”

She is clutching the heart-shaped pendant on her necklace in her right fist. Her gaze is fixed on Jackson.

“Scott, I think I’ll stay with Lydia. Besides, I really need to have a word with my aunt.”

Scott nods and then they’re already walking away from the crowd, the noise, the field.

 

 

 

So they cheered Corey up even though there seems to be a part of Corey’s sadness that Stiles simply can’t take away from him, no matter how much he’d like to.

He does look a little more relaxed and happier in general when they part ways with him at his locker.

“That kid has a massive crush on you,” Scott says when Corey is out of earshot and Stiles sighs.

“I know…”

“And he isn’t the only one, man – you’re like – the hot girl in a trashy romantic teen comedy. Everyone wants you.”

“But isn’t the hot girl usually also the bitch?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“So… wildly inaccurate. Right? Since I’m such a delight and all.”

They grin at each other.

Then Stiles says, “You were killin’ it out there, bro.” He pats Scott on the back.

“It’s easy when you’re around,” Scott simply says, but then his smile vanishes. He’s silent for a moment.

“I wonder what will happen now.”

Stiles shrugs.

“I guess we’ll see.”

“Yeah, guess we’ll see,” Scott repeats with a huff and a nod.

When they’re passing by Gerard’s door behind which the principal is still raging around like a gorilla, Stiles suddenly stops.

“Oh, wait – there’s something I gotta do.”

He drops his bag and rummages around in it for a few moments. Then he resurfaces with a black permanent sharpie.

Scott watches with an amused smile as Stiles walks over to the pile of tables and chairs, one stacked on top of the other and the gaps filled with books and folders and rolls of toilet paper. Since they last came by students have added the skeleton from the biology classroom, an anatomically correct model of a vagina and numerous vulgar sketches scribbled all over the tables and headrests of the chairs.

“Wow – that must be what everyone talks about when they say ‘true art,’” Stiles says.

“Careful, man – it’s like a Jenga tower. One false move and you’ll get ‘Death by Chair’ written on your gravestone.”

Stiles is grinning. He pulls the cap from the sharpie and considers one of the framed copies of Gerard’s list of behavioral rules that he put up right next to the plate that says GERARD ARGENT – HEADMASTER.

Someone already defaced Gerard’s name with a pretty accurate sketch of a penis, so there’s nothing left for Stiles to do here. He turns to the framed list.

Just like several others that Stiles has seen, it has the words _what happened on the lacrosse field ???_ sprawled across it. This must have happened barely ten minutes ago. It definitely didn’t look like this when they came by here earlier.

Stiles considers the writing for a moment.

Then he puts the tip of his sharpie to the glass and answers.

_none of your fucking business !!!_

 

 

 

“Where the hell have you been?!”

Braeden is livid and she’s pointing with her weapon of choice – a long, very dangerous looking spear as it turns out – when she catches up with Stiles in the parking lot. Derek is with her and he looks equally unsettled.

“Relax,” Stiles says. “No one’s here. I really think that starting tomorrow I can take my Jeep again.”

“You,” Braeden is so angry she’s at a loss for words. Well, almost. “You can do _shit_! You hear me, you little brat? Have you completely lost your teenage pea brain?! I tore through the whole fucking school to find you!”

“I was just out on the lacrosse field,” Stiles mutters. He can feel himself starting to get angry. Who is this woman that she thinks she can boss him around like this?

“Well, yeah, we figured that out! And when we got there, you had already left and the thing was over.”

“So… not as good as you think you are, mh?” Stiles raises his eyebrows at Braeden who gasps in outrage. Derek, meanwhile, is coughing into his fist – a thinly veiled laugh.

Braeden shoots him an angry look.

“So – who won? Did you catch Kate?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head, “But her niece-”

“Allison,” Stiles says.

“Right, Allison is tracking her now. She said she’d get her father to help. I think the two of them should be able to find her. Chris – that’s Allison’s dad – will give me a call when they have her. As for who won,” and at this Derek gets a sour expression on his face, “This arrogant kid did. Jackson Whittemore? He’s a junior too, I think.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, lost in thought. “Yeah.”

So Jackson beat them all, the strange dude called Vernon Boyd and all the others. Getting his ass kicked every single morning by Derek for the past few years seems to have made him pretty strong.

“This is not the point,” Braeden says impatiently, “Stiles. You have to be more careful. You can’t let yourself get dragged into all the bullshit that’s happening around here.”

“Where’s Scott?” Derek says, completely ignoring Braeden who shoots him another angry look.

“Had to get home. His mom took the late shift so they could have an early dinner together and – I told him I’d be fine.”

Derek nods like, _Yeah, sounds logical_ , while Breaden throws her arms into the air – both, the one with and the one without a spear – and snorts like she thinks they’ve all lost their mind now.

“That uh – looks really pointy,” Stiles says with a look at Braeden’s weapon. “Can you please not wave that close to my face? I really don’t want to have to regrow an eyeball. I hear it’s an exceedingly disagreeable thing.”

Derek gives him a grin.

“Okay, you know what? I quit,” Breaden says. “I can’t do this. I’m a mercenary, not a clown.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, but he’s not making any effort to wipe the grin off his face.

Stiles knows he’s not being very nice. It’s not like Braeden has done anything to him.

Well, except.

Except she clearly marked Derek as her territory and whether she did it consciously or not, Stiles cannot accept that. It’s just rude is what it is.

Braeden rolls her eyes and shoulders her spear.

“This tongue of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble, Spark.”

Then she turns and walks away.

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek says. “My car is over there.”

 

 

 

 

“So… I hear Scott shifted in front of the entire student body…”

Stiles pulls the door shut and buckles up. He’s been in here before, but with his Spark senses growing stronger every day, it’s like a whole new world to him.

Derek’s Camaro smells like leather and very faintly like coffee. And Derek.

Stiles is careful not to touch the seats with his bare hands though. He has a vague idea of what kind of flesh memory is threaded into the leather fabric.

“Mh. Guess he did.”

Derek snorts out a laugh and starts the engine.

“I have to admit – it is kind of tempting to let the whole thing just sit there. To let everyone believe that Scott took my powers and that he’s the Alpha now but…”

Derek pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street. Then he floors the gas pedal.

“… but Scott is just a kid. I couldn’t do that to him. And glowing my eyes at everyone won’t be enough. They will just believe Scott defeated some other Alpha. True Alphas are so rare… we’ll have to tell the press about it – but I’m gonna let Deaton take care of that. And then we might have to send Scott in for an examination with Dr. Calvin to have her confirm it.”

“So…,” Stiles frowns. “No one can take the power of a True Alpha.”

Derek shakes his head. He stops the car at a red light.

“No. At least, I don’t think so. We haven’t had a True Alpha for more than five centuries in Beacon Hills, but there is still an old saying here. _Red eye, true, is born and dies. Red eye, stolen, eternal life_. Of course there have been a lot of misconceptions about it. Many people only paid attention to the second part.”

Stiles thinks he understands.

“They took it to mean that when you steal an Alpha’s power – you’ll live forever?”

“Yeah. Like the power stolen from an Alpha can make you immortal. There has never been an account of an Alpha’s death, you know? Not a natural death, I mean.”

“Because they get killed before they can die of old age?”

Derek nods.

His lips widen into a smile.

“I guess what they say is true. You _are_ pretty smart.”

“Yeah,” Stiles smirks. “I get that a lot.”

Derek huffs out a laugh.

“But it really means,” Stiles concludes, “that a true Alpha’s power is born with him – and dies with him? Or her?”

“Yes, at least this is how I understand it. True Alphas take their power with them to the grave whereas a regular Alpha’s power, technically, is immortal because it gets handed down from generation to generation.”

“Unless,” Stiles says, “Unless an Alpha were to die with it,” and Derek nods.

“Hypothetically, yes. An Alpha dying undefeated. That would break the circle.”

They’re driving on in silence for a while, both lost in thought.

Then Stiles says, “No badass bulletproof limousine around the Spark today?”

“Nope.”

“But don’t you want to, like… protect your investment?” Stiles is treading very carefully.

The thing is just – he cannot _not_ bring it up.

“My investment?” Derek takes his eyes from the road for a moment to shoot Stiles a puzzled look. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You know… since _your alpha_ kinda can’t live without my spark….”

Stiles wonders whether Derek can hear the edge in his voice.

He continues to look confused.

“Stiles – what’s going on?”

But Stiles shakes his head.

After about a minute of silence, Derek pulls into a parking lot.

“You want to grab dinner at a Chipotle?” Stiles says with frown. “I really thought you hated that stuff.”

“I do hate that stuff. But I want to know what the hell is going on.”

He puts the car in park, unbuckles his seat belt and turns to Stiles.

“Well, I could eat,” Stiles says turning away from Derek as if to open the door, but when Derek narrows his eyes at him he sighs.

“Alright, I – there’s something – you said. This morning. That made me… think.”

“What did I say?”

Patiently.

“About… how you felt drawn to – my spark.”

“And?”

“I just have to know if – if you like me – just _because_ I’m a Spark.”

Derek stares at him for a moment of befuddled silence.

Then he lets out a sigh of relief.

“God, and I thought – I really thought you were about to tell me that you picked – Corey or Parrish. Or that Jackson jerk.”

“What?”

“Never mind. I guess with half the town courting you I tend to get a little – paranoid. And they all want you as a mate you know?”

“What? Parrish? What are you – no. You’re changing the topic. Don’t do that! I’m on to you, lady!”

Derek frowns at him for a moment, but he lets Stiles’ odd choice of words slide.

Then he says, “Of course I like you because you’re the Spark.”

When Stiles’ face falls, he quickly adds, “Because that’s something you cannot _not_ be. Stiles – what I like – what I liked from the beginning – is you. Just you. Whatever you are. There was a time, the first few days after your awakening when I wondered whether – I’d feel drawn to you if you hadn’t presented as Spark and – every time you do something stupid and fearless I’m reminded that no, that’s not it.”

He considers Stiles for a moment.

Then he reaches out to brush his fingertips over the moles on Stiles’ cheek.

“Even though it’s true that you sort of – speak to the Alpha in me. But… I never felt like this toward Alan Deaton. Or,” and he shudders, “Mrs. Allen, God forbid. No, Stiles. It’s just _you_.”

Stiles, blushing, averts his eyes to the ground.

He wants to ask Derek what exactly it is that he’s feeling, but he’s too embarrassed. He feels extremely stupid.

“I…”

“Don’t,” Derek interrupts him, “…apologize. I – get it. Believe me. I get it. Since I became the Alpha, people have never looked at me the same way again. It’s like I’m just this institution to them. The Alpha. Like they don’t even see me as a person anymore. You become that role, you know – in more ways than one.”

Stiles nods. He understands.

“So this is scary. Like vanishing behind your power, being completely effaced. You can’t let that happen.”

“So – you don’t just – _like_ me because I turned out to be a Spark?”

“Of course not, Stiles. Even though it does speak to how special you are. But it’s not all you are. You can’t let your spark consume you. You have to make your spark grow around you. And that’s hard and – painful. Takes a long time. Believe me – I know.”

Another nod.

Then silence and they’re just sitting there, in the dark.

“What?” Stiles says. Derek’s eyes have shifted and they’re illuminating the interior with a beautiful red glow.

“Can I… may I – kiss you?”

Stiles smiles at him.

“You may.”

And Derek leans over the gear shift, placing his hand in Stiles’ neck infinitely gently.

And he pulls him close.


	10. Order and Disorder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Scott right? Is it a good thing that everyone will know about – whatever it is that Stiles and Derek are to each other?  
> What is the sheriff going to do about it? What if he insists on being in the room with them at all time?
> 
> Stiles can’t kiss Derek with his dad watching, he just can’t.
> 
> Then again – he kind of already did.
> 
> Because his dad ended up seeing it – everyone did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit November 11, 2017: Hey you guys!! are you all still with me? First of all, I'm SO so sorry that there hasn't been an update (yes, yes, I know.... I'm being the stereotypical fanfiction writer here, promising updates, but then there aren't any). I do have a good excude though (I think): my partner is very sick (cancer), so I've been feeling out of it for months - I just can't get into the mood I need to be in to write the happy ending I want for this fic; I'm just exhausted and stressed and afraid of what might happen. I'm also trying to finish my book (in real-life; it's a boring academic volume), so I pour all the energy I have for writing into this thing (because I really want to a job next year........... we'll see how that works out). Anyway, I just felt like letting you all know - I know I'm letting you down, but it's not because I lost interest. I think about this story a lot and I can't wait for the day I find myself with a week of nothing to do and feeling okay-ish - and I can dive right back into the wonderful Teen Wolf universe.  
> Until then, please forgive - and I am so happy that my story is still being read and cared about. You all are the reason I write.
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> thank you all for your support and kudos and lovely comments :* please have a little more patience with me - this story will be finished and there will be a sequel, but it might take me a little longer than I had intended to. sorry for that :/  
> here is a new chapter, I hope you enjoy it.  
> <3 <3

 

 

 

“We in the Handdara don’t want answers. It’s hard to avoid them, but we try to.”

“Faxe, I don’t think I understand.”

“Well, we come here to the Fastnesses mostly to learn what questions not to ask.”

“But you’re the Answerers!”

“You don’t see, Genry, why we perfected and practice Foretelling?”

“No.”

“To exhibit the perfect uselessness of knowing the answer to the wrong question.”

(Ursula K. Le Guin, _The Left Hand of Darkness_ )

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“I still can’t believe there’s _magazines_ for it, I mean,” Stiles lifts the catalogue a little, weighs it in his hand, and drops it back down on the floorboards in front of him, “I mean – this is _ridiculous_.”

He flicks over one of the glossy pages and continues to look at the images.

“I thought it would be more like – the Illuminati. You know?”

Stiles frowns down at the photo of a beaming beta in a pale pink dress. She’s clutching a bouquet. The writing in the box next to it says, _Spring Dreams Always Come True_ in elegant white letters.

“A thousand candles, a moldy vault, black robes – maybe a human sacrifice…”

 Stiles sits up and crosses his legs – he was sprawled out on a blanket belly down, but his elbows are starting to hurt – and he picks the magazine up and continues flipping through the pages.

“But this is more like – a wedding catalogue. I mean… there’s gazebos and tents and lights and flower arrangements, tables with color schemes, suggestions on which frosting to mix with what champagne. I mean – how would anyone ever… it’s almost like _years_ wouldn’t be enough to plan it all out. There’s an entire section on table cloths! How do you pronounce _Guipure_?”

Stiles looks up from the magazine. It seems like he expected an answer, but when he doesn’t get one he continues.

“You grew up with this – was it always this big a thing?”

And then, “Derek?”

“Mh?”

They’re in Derek’s house – the Hale mansion. Without waiting for Derek to say something ridiculous like _‘Make yourself at home’_ in the most uncomfortable place imaginable, Stiles had grabbed a ratty old blanket from a pile in the hallway. He’s now camping out in the middle of the empty living room. Empty, that is, except for the enormous hole in the exterior wall that is covered up with a large piece of green tarp, and that does nothing but leak, underline the bleak state of Derek’s home and visualize the atmosphere of absence hanging over every room. This room is so in-your-face and over-the-top desolate, it’s ridiculous.

The blanket reeks of moth balls.

Stiles drops the magazine back on the sooty floor and looks over at Derek who just appeared in the door that connects the living room with the kitchen. He’s wiping a plate with an equally ratty looking dish towel.

Stiles just hopes his lasagna won’t taste like moth balls.

After their kiss in his Camaro Derek invited Stiles over for dinner on Sunday. Then he dropped him off.

This is why Stiles is here now.

It’s a cold Sunday evening out on the Beacon Hills preserve, but the radiant heater – one of these things that people usually use on construction sites? – is warming up the place pretty nicely. The green tarp must be magic or something. At least, Stiles isn’t shivering.

“What are you going on about?” Derek is saying now. He puts the plate away and swings the dish towel over his right shoulder with perfect nonchalance like one of these movie stars of old, in all black-and-white. Then he crosses his muscular arms in front of his chest and leans in the door frame like Marlon fucking Brando.

Sometimes, Derek is so handsome it takes Stiles’ breath away.

They don’t talk much.

Derek works a lot, so much so that Stiles wonders when the Alpha gets the chance to get some sleep at all. Since Derek dropped him off Stiles only saw him twice – once on Wednesday morning when Derek picked him up and drove him to school and then again, a day later, on Thursday afternoon when Derek managed to make time to come over to Stiles’ and hang out with him for an hour. They had coffee.

Which means that it has been four days since they last kissed. As in, 76 hours since the last time their lips touched around 3:05 p.m. in Stiles’ kitchen. 4590 minutes.

275.420 seconds.

Yes, Stiles did the math. Had plenty of time to, right?

“I said,” Stiles repeats, fighting the urge to jump up, rush over to his man – yes, that’s goddamn right, Derek is _his man_ now and the thought only makes him blush _a little_ – and start sucking off his face. Because he’s more mature than that. Also, he’s still low-key scared to get rejected.

If Stiles jumped him like that, Derek might snarl at him and turn away and then Stiles would die.

“… you grew up with this stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“… the – the gazebos and all that. And the gowns. What’s with those gowns, anyway. They just look – strange.”

“Gazebos?”

Derek is frowning.

“What – the hell are you talking about Stiles?”

“Just – I was flipping through this catalogue and I wondered…” He pointedly averts his eyes, fixing his gaze on the ugly green tarp rather than on Derek’s face. “… since you kinda grew up with this, were you ever – I mean, did you ever think about how – how it would be for you?”

He blushes.

He shouldn’t have asked that.

Way too personal.

Way too soon.

Damnit, Stiles.

“Stiles, I have no idea what it is that you’re saying. Not the faintest clue. You have to use words with me. Okay? Human words.” An amused smile on his lips.

Stiles narrows his eyes.

His embarrassment quickly dissolves into impatience. He throws his arms into the air.

“I’m talking about what every kid dreams about. The ceremony. Like did you ever,” and here he stops himself again and bites his lip, “envision yours? At all?”

Derek frowns.

“I mean…,” and Stiles takes a deep breath and tells himself to relax and talk lightly as if the thought just crossed his mind for the first time, “one of these – one of these bonding ceremonies. You know – when two people-”

“Become mates. Yes. I know.”

“And, and usually, in the non-supernatural world, sometimes girls would dream about their big day for years and stuff and I just wondered,” looking down at his catalogue to hide his blush, “… whether it’s the same here. In Beacon Hills.”

“Whether kids dream about their bonding ceremonies?”

“Yeah, as in: enivison it. Imagine it. Can’t wait for it to happen etc. When I’m all grown up I want to wear a chrysanthemum crown. Stuff like that.”

“A crown?”

Sometimes Derek can be maddeningly slow to catch on. Stiles feels like he’s doing it on purpose.

“Where did you get that catalogue?”

“Er… from the stack in the kitchen? Looked a lot more interesting than _1000 Winter Recipes for Ravenous Wendigos_ ,” Stiles says. After a short pause he adds, “…. _by Ruben Whittlecrest_.”

Derek rolls his eyes and sighs as if he remembers something.

“My Mom must have left it here,” and he curses under his breath. “She keeps doing stuff like that.”

Stiles flicks the magazine over and considers the cover.

“She’s leaving catalogues about _How to Plan Your Perfect Bonding Ceremony in Fifty-Eight Easy Steps_ in your house? When was your mother even here?”

Derek turns and walks back into the kitchen. Stiles pulls himself up from the floor – blanket or no blanket, his legs are sort of stiff from sitting on the ground for too long – and follows.

“She came by the house last night. She’s always busy, but she checks in on all her kids regularly.”

Stiles watches Derek bend down to check on the lasagna. He tries not to stare at his ass. His insanely perfect ass like what the hell.

“Sounds like something a good mother would do.”

“Yup,” Derek says. “I’d say five more minutes before we can eat.”

“…it’s cool that you know how to cook.”

Derek straightens his back and deposits his fork on a small plate on the counter. He turns to Stiles.

“You know how to cook, too. Your dad used to talk about,” a smile flits over Derek’s face, “your – _creations_.”

“That’s hardly the right descriptor for the magnificent dishes I prepared for him whenever he came to visit.”

“More like, concocted.”

“Har. Har,” Stiles says dryly, but Derek’s smile quickly dissolves his sour expression.

“He always sounded very proud.”

“Did he?”

Derek opens one of the cabinets to retrieve a couple of plates. Stiles takes them from him and they start setting the table.

“And you always sounded like a handful.”

Derek smirks as he puts the forks down next to the plates.

“I wasn’t that exhausting a kid.”

“Mh, but weren’t you though.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“You glued a set of fake fingernails to your cat for Halloween.”

Stiles lets out an embarrassed moan. He puts the cups he was holding down on the table so he can cover his face with his hands and die of shame.

“I can’t believe he told you about that.”

“He told everyone.”

“Oh, God…”

“Relax. That was a long time ago.”

“I know. I was, maybe – six years old. Why do you even remember bullshit like that?”

But Derek never answers.

Stiles flinches when he pulls his hands away from his face carefully.

Derek is right in front of him now and close, so close.

He lifts his hands to Stiles’ face, puts them on his cheeks. Holds him like this and looks at him.

Then he touches Stiles’ lips softly with his own.

Stiles lets his hands wander up Derek’s back, pulls him close.

Then they’re just kissing.

And Derek’s house doesn’t seem so empty anymore.

 

 

 

 

“So…,” Stiles says five minutes later when he’s sitting down in his chair. His face is flushed and he’s – let’s just say, a little flustered. But then Derek invited him to eat, not to make out, so… this is probably what they should be doing.

Derek drops a large piece of lasagna on his plate. He doesn’t look any better, but of course he has a lot more composure than Stiles. It’s more a character-thing than an age-thing, really.

“So… your mom visits on a regular basis?”

“Yeah. Enjoy.”

Stiles nods and they start eating.

“Okay, how should I put this… er… what does she say about the – _deplorable_ state your house is in?”

Derek grimaces.

“She has a whole bunch of stuff to say about that.”

Stiles lifts his eyebrows.

“I have time?”

“It’s – complicated.”

Stiles frowns.

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it is.”

“So what-”

“Can we not – talk about my mother? I’m sorry, she’s just. She’s sort of – conservative.”

“Republican?”

“Not that kind of conservative. She’s more like – traditional.”

“Torches and pitchforks?”

“Stiles.”

“Okay, sorry, sorry. No questions, got it.”

They eat in silence for a while.

Then Derek suddenly says, “What you asked earlier – about the bonding ceremony. Whether it’s what every kid here in Beacon Hills dreams about.”

Stiles who’s already done drops his fork and sets his eyes on Derek, waiting for him to continue.

“…and I think, yeah. Most people do. You don’t have to be a were to have one even though that’s where it originally comes from. Bonding is what happens when an Alpha gives their mate the claiming bite, so it’s a biological thing – and then people built this whole ceremony around it.”

Stiles already knew that, but he needs to hear what Derek thinks of it so badly that he manages to suppress the urge to show off his knowledge.

“But it could be anyone today?”

“Pretty much. Boy-girl, boy-boy, girl-girl. It’s a deep bond – that’s what it signifies. That’s what it celebrates. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“So… it _is_ like a wedding.”

“Except it isn’t – at all,” Derek says. “You finished?”

Stiles nods.

“Are you sure?”

Another nod. Derek drops his fork on his plate and gets up. They start clearing the table.

“Look, it isn’t like a wedding at all. First of all, the bonding ceremonies are in spring, at the beginning of every new year. Usually in March. Then, it’s not necessarily between two people. It could also be three, but that’s rare. Then, you don’t have to be romantically involved. It can also be a deep friendship. But those aren’t as often anymore today – but they used to be pretty frequent. You know, with bonding – mating – comes the promise to care for one another, based on the model of an Alpha caring for a mate. Providing. Raising – raising kids. Stuff like that.”

Derek has his back toward Stiles. He’s stacking the dishwasher.

“…and I mean – who wouldn’t dream of that?”

So there’s his answer. ‘Who wouldn’t dream of that’ usually means _everyone_ would. And Derek, too.

Stiles wants to shower Derek with questions, but is once again too scared of being shut out. He has this feeling that that’s how Derek tends to react when people are being too pushy.

Then again, Stiles likes to _not_ think of himself as _people_ , but that’s not the point here.

The point is, he needs to tread carefully so he says, “…but it’s not for life?”

Derek shuts the dishwasher, straightens his back and turns around.

“No. I mean – it can be. But not necessarily. The bond is renewed with each new spring – or it isn’t.”

“That’s – weird,” Stiles says, frowning.

“Not at all, it makes perfect sense,” Derek says back. “Every spring there is a huge ceremony in Beacon Hills and all the mates come together to celebrate and renew their bonding. Er, about those – gazebos and flower arrangements? Some people have a private party after, but there’s actually a ceremonial committee that’s in charge of that. Bunch of really annoying people who spend their whole goddamn year to plan the Spring Ceremonies out. To the last, tiniest and excruciatingly insignificant detail.”

His expression darkens.            

“And because I’m the Alpha I have to sit in on at least one meeting a month.”

Stiles suppresses a chuckle.

“So what – _you_ have the final say in the flower arrangements?”

Gloomy silence.

“Oh, my God, you do, you actually do! I can so imagine that conversation right now. ‘ _Mauve or scarlet, Alpha?’ ‘I don’t care.’ ‘But if the chair covers don’t match the Alpha’s attire it’ll ruin everything.’ ‘Oh then, just shoot me.’ ‘Alpha, some of the bonding mates have expressed their wish for five thousand live butterflies…’ ‘I’m serious, kill me now.’_ ”

Derek continues to look rather displeased and Stiles can’t help it, he cracks up. Slowly recovering, he says, “I bet that was pretty accurate.”

“Maybe,” Derek says. “I hate those meetings. They always decide on the exact same bullshit every year and come to the exact same conclusions, and yet, I have to personally okay every single thing. Every single goddamn year. As if I didn’t have anything else to do. Anyway,” he huffs, a little less sour now, “… so it’s not about forever and always because that’s not what the ceremony is about. It celebrates the moment – being in the moment. Infinity in every single second. That’s our way.”

“Mh,” Stiles says, thoughtfully. He is wiping his cheeks – he laughed so hard his eyes are wet – and thinks he’s slowly beginning to understand the way people around here are thinking. “I really have to unlearn everything I know, don’t I?”

“That’s always a good idea,” Derek comments matter-of-factly. He wipes the table with a wet sponge, then cleans the sponge under the tap.

Stiles is staring at the hole in Derek’s kitchen wall. It’s covered up with tarp, too.

“You got a new fridge,” he says.

“Had to,” Derek says back and drops the sponge in the dish rack to dry.

“So…,” Stiles is treading carefully. He can’t let Derek know how badly he wants the answer to his next question. “So… did you ever… I mean – was there something that – you wanted? Specifically? When you weren’t the Alpha yet and hated everything?”

“I don’t hate everything,” Derek says with a frown, but then he huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “But I see your point. The thing is – I never used to want it, you know? A big ceremony. I always thought when I find someone I want to bond with, it’ll be the most – private and intimate thing. You don’t even really have to go to the party. So when I was a kid I always thought those things were super lame. I had to be there with my Mom every year of course…”

“Because she was the Alpha?”

“Yeah and I – well. I guess I didn’t really get the meaning until-” but he stops. “Soda?”

“Sure,” Stiles shrugs and Derek opens his new fridge. “Coke, please.”

“So I never really thought about it for myself – until I met Paige, that is.”

Stiles opens his can and starts sipping his Coke, ignoring the feeling of acute jealousy he always gets when Derek mentions Paige. Which is, if your think about how little time they have together, quite frequently.

Which kinda makes Stiles feels like Derek isn’t really over her which is –

Great. For him, for Stiles.

Totally great.

Awesome.

“I had the worst crush on her for about a year before I finally mustered the courage to ask her out,” he laughs and the sound makes Stiles’ heart ache because he feels like it’s not for him, “I really had to become the Alpha before I was man enough to do it. And during those months I was the lamest teenager ever. I imagined taking Paige to the ceremony down to the last detail.” He snorts. “Ridiculous.”

“So that means,” Stiles says, taking another sip between words to ensure that none of the bitterness seeps through and into his voice, “…that you don’t really hate the ceremony per se. It kinda just got ruined for you – by Paige.”

“By Kate,” Derek immediately corrects. “And all the others.”

“The others?” Stiles frowns. “What others?”

“Never mind,” and when Stiles opens his mouth to protest, Derek says, “Really, Stiles. Believe me. You don’t want to know. Let’s just say I have a bunch of fanatic stalkers, ranging in character from amusing to downright creepy.”

“You got the whole spectrum,” Stiles says.

“Yup.”

“With Kate being aaaaaaall the way on the mad-and-terrifying end.”

At this, Derek takes a long sip of his soda, way too long, then swallows which is fascinating because Stiles never thought you could do it in slow-mo, and then he says, “…….sure.”

“Wow. Did you just down your Fanta?”

“Maybe.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Is it gazebo-related?”

“…why don’t you just fix this? Your wall, I mean. With plaster and stuff. Like real people do who don’t fancy a constant icy breeze swiping through their kitchen?” He puts the can to his mouth and mutters,” …and living room.”

Derek follows Stiles’ gaze to the tarp taped over the hole in the kitchen wall.

“Are you cold?”

“No. Surprisingly not.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“What’s the – Derek, there’s a _giant hole_. In your _wall_.”

“You keep pointing that out to me and I’m gonna give you the same answer I gave you last time: I. Know.”

Derek lifts his eyebrows at Stiles and his can up to drink, then remembers that it’s empty and puts it down on the counter.

“Don’t you ever wake up and feel like: jeez. Today’s the day I’ma pay some people to fix my crappy house.”

“Some guest you are,” Derek says with a shake of the head. “Besides, have you seen the builders around this town?”

“They did an awesome job with the school? Like almost insane. Like magic. They put the entire building back up and ready to use within a week. Remember?”

“Yeah but those weren’t from around here. There’s only one construction firm in Beacon Hills, owned by a guy named Johnny Galotti.”

“Is he related to-”

“He’s his brother.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Wait, the same Johnny that Mrs. Allen hired to fix her wall? ‘Johnny’s Men’ or something?”

Stiles thinks he also saw some ads around town.

“The very guy. And he’s – a catastrophe. He puts off sending people over for a year and then, when they finally come over to fix your stuff which takes at least another year no matter what it is, they somehow manage to transform it into a death trap. I had a brick detach itself from the ceiling and hit me over the head once after he did a job around here about five years ago.”

Stiles looks up.

“The ceiling is made of wood.”

“Exactly,” Derek says.

There is a short silence.

“Then – why don’t you just hire the guys from Arizona? Since they did such an awesome job.”

Derek shoots him a look like Stiles has lost his mind.

“Why? We have a construction company here in Beacon Hills.”

Stiles frowns. Somehow he doesn’t have a comeback for this one.

Derek says, “Grab your jacket. I told your dad you’d be home before 10.”

 

 

 

“So – how do you arrange for someone to become mates,” Stiles says.

They’re in Derek’s car.

Derek just pulled up to the Stilinski house, rolling the window down for only a few seconds to glow his eyes at the betas guarding it. It’s how he lets them know that it’s really him.

Stiles still can’t wrap his head around the amount of security people deem necessary for his safety.

“You’re really interested in this topic,” Derek says and puts the car in park.

“Not really,” Stiles says, trying hard to pull off casual and uninterested. It might not work as well as he’s thinking though, judging from Derek’s amused smirk.

“The way you do everything in this world.”

A frown from Stiles.

“Which is how exactly?”

“You ask.”

“Oh – okay. Sounds kinda simple.”

“It is,” Derek says and then he nods his head at the house. “Your dad’s waiting. Don’t forget your jacket.”

“Okay. Well. Thanks,” Stiles says. He curls his fingers around his jacket. “For dinner. And stuff.”

Derek smiles and Stiles holds his breath.

But he doesn’t lean over.

His dad would know. The windows are tinted but Stiles just knows he would.

“We should tell your dad. I hate sneaking around behind his back like that,” Derek is saying now as if he could read Stiles’ thoughts and Stiles nods.

“Yeah. Just not today.”

It wasn’t really his conscious decision to keep this – again, whatever _this_ is – from the sheriff, but as he gets out of the car and throws the door shut behind him he realizes that he doesn’t want his dad to know because he couldn’t bear a ‘ _no, I forbid it_ ’ from him.

Not on this anyway.

It’s too important.

 

 

“You guys had a good talk?”

“Mh?”

They’re sitting on the sofa watching a taping of the 1964 summer Olympics in Tokyo. Because apparently, this is what his dad considers a chill evening.

Only the aquatics competitions though.

Stiles doesn’t even wonder anymore.

“You and Derek. Food was good?”

“Yup.”

“You know…,” his dad takes a drag of his beer, “I think it’s a good thing that you two get to know each other.”

Stiles looks at his father whose eyes stay glued to the screen.

“You do?”

“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. As the Spark you’ll have to work closely with him. And besides – Derek’s a good guy. You can consider yourself lucky – any other Alpha would have made their intentions clear to claim you on day one. Or simply claimed you, against your will.”

“Uh-hu,” Stiles says and he wishes he had a beer, just so he could wrap his fingers around something and hold on to it. “Lucky.”

“As it is, you can work together the way Parrish and I do.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, face distorted in disgust. He did _not_ just imagine his dad kissing Parrish in Derek’s kitchen.

Oh, no no no no no no!

Bad brain, bad! Stop it!

Ew.

Why does he _always_ have to visualize everything?

“And Derek’s a good kid. He really is,” the sheriff is saying now, completely oblivious of the thousand different emotions flitting across his son’s face.

“You talk about him like he’s ten.”

“Well I knew him when he was ten. And I worked with him closely when he became Alpha. Youngest one in over three hundred years, too. Caused quite a commotion. He used to come to me when he didn’t know what to do, how to behave.”

“Really?”

Stiles frowns, his face illuminated by the blues and greens from the TV.

Wouldn’t Derek be able to learn everything he needed to know from his own mother – the previous Alpha?

“Well, he never had it easy, you know. With all those women who obsess over him and – then his family…”

“What’s with his family?” Stiles immediately says, really interested now. He completely forgot that his dad might be able to tell him a lot about Derek, but then his dad ruins it by following it up with, “It’s really not for me to tell you this. You gotta ask Derek. But with his sisters and uncle-”

“What uncle?”

“-you really wonder how he managed to stay sane all throughout his childhood. And then that mother of his…”

“Talia Hale?”

Stiles had looked at photos of Derek’s mother online and read up on her as much as he could simply because he was curious and felt it would be rude to pester Derek with questions. She looked like a nice woman, pretty – a little stiff maybe in the press photographs, but other than that.

She had Derek’s mouth and eyes.

“She’s – she’s a bunch,” the sheriff says. “Listen – I shouldn’t have said that. Derek’s family, they’re all really nice folk. You’ll get to know them soon enough and they’re all – really nice. All of them.”

Then he grabs the remote and turns the volume up which is absolutely pointless because the camera is just swiping across the stadium and there’s no commentary.

Stiles takes this to mean that the conversation is over and he settles back on the sofa, giving in to his own thoughts and starting a mental list of people he could pester for information while trying to figure out what part of it all he could look up.

Something is up with Derek’s mother, with his family, with his house, and it’s not just that things are different around here, in Beacon Hills.

Stiles has this feeling that everything’s far more complex than that.

 

 

 

That night Stiles falls asleep picturing Derek under a gazebo, one of those white things he saw in the catalogue at Derek’s house, with ivy wound around the pillars.

He’s smiling at him and waiting for him and even though Stiles knows about the ceremonial gowns, when he imagines it, Derek is wearing a black shirt just like the one he’s wearing in that photograph Stiles has of him, the one that’s hidden under an edition of F. Hopper Argent’s famous _Legendarium_ on his nightstand.

After he has dozed off Derek is haunting his dreams.

Stiles wakes up at 4:07 a.m. drenched in sweat and heart beating loudly in his chest.

Derek had taken Stiles’ hand under the gazebo and transformed into a moose and said, _‘Don’t you like my antlers? I grew them just for you. It’s how we do it here in Beacon Hills. It’s the way.’_

Stiles has a hard time going back to sleep after that.

 

 

 

 

Monday morning is the start of another week at Beacon Hills High and nothing has changed.

Stiles is still the Spark, Scott is still a True Alpha. The other students are still lunatics – with very few exceptions.

“Hey, Stiles,” the blond beta, Willow Begay, purrs. She’s leaning against Stiles’ locker and glowing her yellow eyes at him while twirling a pink chewing gum around her index finger. “Wanna go see a movie tonight? There’s this new slasher that’s playing at The Candle, a total must see.”

Very few.

Willow shows him her pointy canines.

She’s so cute, it hurts.

“Sorry, I can’t today.”

“Why?” Willow says, completely ignoring Stiles’ attempt to open his locker even though she’s leaning against it. “To meet Derek Hale?”

“What?”

Stiles’ eyes widen.

“You reek of him,” Willow says. “But I guess that makes sense. Of course the Alpha would scent-mark you.”

“Y-yeah,” Stiles says. His face feels very hot all of a sudden. “Totally.”

Then Erica Reyes is next to Stiles, her blood red nails digging into his shoulder.

“Ouch,” Stiles says, cringing under her grip, “Erica, your nails!”

Erica removes her hand, but Stiles is pretty sure it’s not because she’s complying with his wishes. Because Erica uses it a moment later to point it at Willow and say with an annoyed frown, “Who’s that brat?”

Willow is chewing her gum and then, like they’re in some kind of movie, she makes a giant pink bubble that explodes in Erica’s face.

“Willow, I need my calculus book,” Stiles says. “Can you please move?”

“Look at that,” Willow says looking Erica up and down. “It’s Derek Hale’s pack, the Vampire Ice Queen and her little Puppy, Ihab.”

“It’s Isaac,” Isaac says ruefully and Erica almost facepalms.

“Shut up,” she hisses in his direction, then she turns to Willow.

“Beat it, bimbo. The Spark is out of your fucking league.”

“Who died and left you in charge.” She chews once, twice, then she looks at Stiles, completely unimpressed by Erica’s fury which Stiles has to admire a little bit.

Say what you will but Willow can really pull off that Harley Quinn-thing she’s got going on like nobody’s business.

“So tonight?”

“I already told you I don’t have time, and can you please move, this is my locker!”

Willow gives him a wide grin.

“I know. It’s why I’m _right_ here, bud.”

And then Erica ends the discussion by shoving her hand into Willow’s neck who lets out a surprised growl.

“I really want to kill you, but my Alpha wouldn’t like that so – just take this as a warning, princess.”

She forces Willow down onto her knees on the tiles. Her straight silver-blond hair is falling over Erica’s claw.

“Erica, my locker!” Stiles says, but, as always, no one listens to him.

Luckily both Willow’s kicks and Erica’s elbows miss his locker door by inches.

Erica squats next to Willow who is fuming, her eyes glowing yellow, a dangerous color made even more intense in contrast with her purple eye shadow.

“It’s no use, missy. I’m way stronger than you. I’m Alpha pack,” Erica snarls. “You’ll stay away from the Spark or I’m gonna tie your ridiculous pony tail to the ceiling fan in the biology classroom.”

“That’s a very precise image,” Stiles says. He’s trying to reach around Erica and open his locker.

“Alpha pack? You’re just a fucking bully,” Willow spits out and when Erica lets go of her she picks herself up, eyes still glowing neon yellow.

“Later, Stiles,” she says darkly and Stiles sighs. He turns to Erica.

“Couldn’t you have been a little nicer? She’s kinda – okay.”

They can hear Willow stomping down the hallway in her combat boots angrily. Everyone has been watching of course. And everyone in the hallway is shifting their gaze back to Stiles now, but after a week of this, Stiles feels like he’s getting used to it. It doesn’t bother him as much anymore.

They rarely speak to him – they’re really too much in awe still – it’s mostly just staring and he guesses he can live with that.

“I can’t let the Spark run around this school unprotected,” Erica says gravely.

“I’m not unprotected. For starters, I have Scott.”

“Alright? Where is he?” Erica says. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and looks at him expectantly like she’s waiting for Stiles to point to his bag and go, _‘He’s right in here! Little buddy likes it warm.’_

“Not here yet,” Stiles admits. “But he will be, soon.”

“Sneaking in because no one believes he’s a True Alpha and they all wanna kill him?” Erica says, an amused smile playing around her lips.

Stiles doesn’t answer because, yup.

That’s pretty much exactly it.

This past week has been crazy for Stiles – crazy because people just don’t seem to get used to him being a Spark.

But that’s nothing compared to what Scott’s week was like since he presented as a True Alpha.

“So, it’s our duty to protect you, Sparkly. And your obsessed fans? I’m gonna squish them like the vermin they are. Like _this_!”

And at that, to Stiles’ utter horror and before he can even think of intervening, Erica strikes his locker door, about three inches below the other fist-shaped dent, and like last time the metal immediately warps around her knuckles.

Stiles cannot fucking believe it.

“Damnit, Erica, you’re going to completely wreck it! It’s hard enough to open as it is!”

“What? Why?” Erica says and hits his locker again. The door springs open and a waterfall of boxes – a new load of courting gifts for Stiles – is spilling out and onto the floor in front of their feet.

“I don’t see your problem. It opens just fine.”

“You – I can’t believe you. I just can’t,” Stiles growls. “Wait – did Derek tell you to do this?”

“To hit your locker?” Isaac says and Erica responds with, “Protect you? He doesn’t have to.”

Her lips are pursed in a trademark mocking smirk.

“We’re his betas. It’s instinct. We always sense what’s – going on. With him.” Her smile widens into a wolfish grin.

“And you.”

Sometimes Stiles just hates his body. Like now, when he blushes wildly and his heart, that traitor, starts racing and there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Bye, Stiles.”

And Erica whips her honey blond curls back over her shoulder, turns around on her heel and starts marching off, flicking her fingers for Isaac to follow.

The Vampire Ice Queen and her puppy, Ihab.

Still growling, Stiles takes his calculus textbook out of his locker and then makes an effort to shovel at least a part of the courting gifts back inside. After a while, like every day, he gives up, slams the door shut – of course, now it won’t close properly anymore – and starts wandering off toward the classroom, thinking that Willow may be kind of rude, but that girl really has a point about Erica.

And badass boots.

Those boots are really badass.

 

 

 

When Stiles dumps his bag next to his desk there is a metallic _clonk_.

It’s from the aluminum baseball bat Stiles has made a habit of strapping to the side of his bag.

One reason being that when Stiles opened his locker last Wednesday, not only was his bat half-smothered in courting gifts, there were bows tied around it and candy taped to it and when he tried to untangle what looked like a particularly odd Christmas tree, Jackson laughed so hard it sounded like he was choking on his tongue. Stiles spent the entire next period fuming and wishing he could get back at him somehow, and at everyone who dared to invade the privacy of his locker every single morning.

You don’t mess with the fucking bat. You just don’t.

So, there’s one reason why Stiles started carrying it around with him.

And then there is – this.

These people.

Right there in front of him.

Okay, sure, when Stiles walks into the classroom that Monday, just like last week, there are all those boys and girls who look at him like he’s the greatest thing they’ve ever seen. Then there’s those who are jealous and the ones who just don’t care and the people who he came to consider his friends – Allison, even Lydia and maybe Danny.

There’s Jackson – Stiles doesn’t know what the hell Jackson is to him and whether Jackson hates his guts or not and whether Stiles hates Jackson’s guts or not, so he’s not going to dwell on it.

But then, there are those new kids – the ones who moved to Beacon Hills with their parents to be close to the Spark. Like this dude, Vernon Boyd.

When Stiles walks into the classroom, Boyd has already taken his seat in the back of the room and he’s sitting there like someone screwed him into it and his eyes follow Stiles from the door to his chair, but Boyd’s head never moves.

There’s nothing of the amazement or awe in his gaze and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say that Boyd hates him. He never smiles. Never talks.

He’s just watching him, silently.

But he is here because of Stiles – Stiles knows this for a fact because 1) Boyd was one of the kids who showed up right after Panic Radio spread the news about his awakening and 2) there is an air of expectation about him that Stiles can sense. As if he’s waiting for something to happen.

With Stiles, that is.

Or _to_ Stiles.

“Close your mouth, Stilinski,” Jackson says and when Stiles turns to him with an irritated expression on his face, Jackson lifts his eyebrows and looks at him like _‘What?’_

But Stiles doesn’t even have to come up with a clever comeback. The girls to Jackson’s left and right look outraged and ready to kick Jackson’s ass in defense of their Spark. Stiles guesses that it’s only a matter of time before someone tries to punch Jackson in the face again. He just hopes he’ll be there to see it.

The point is, this Vernon Boyd guy freaks him out.

Stiles knows he’s up to something, but he can’t figure out what it is. He’s just getting these strange vibes, it’s unsettling.

And it’s distracting, too.

When Stiles is unloading his textbooks onto his desk he keeps forgetting which ones he’ll actually need for this period because Boyd’s weird presence has him on edge.

“Stiles.”

Stiles sits up straight.

“Stiles, can you hear me?”

To his right, Jackson is rolling his eyes.

“Of course he can hear you, McCall. Everyone can!” he mutters. “Tssss… loser.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Stiles grits out. God, the dude’s a jackass – and he seems to be wrong, too.

Scott is outside in the empty hallway and the only two people in the room capable of picking up his whisper seem to be Stiles and Jackson.

Stiles because he’s a Spark and Scott is his anchor and whenever he’s within a 400-foot-radius he’s on Stiles’ radar. Stiles always knows exactly where his best friend is.

And Jackson, well… no matter how much he dislikes the guy, Stiles has to admit that Jackson has keener senses and is stronger than most betas.

“I’ll be in in five,” Scott’s voice is saying now and Stiles sighs. He knows what Scott is doing of course.

He’s waiting so he can sneak in right after their teacher. Most students don’t want to get in trouble, so they’ll at least wait until _after_ the period to attack him.

Because, yeah, it’s like Willow said. No one at school seems to believe that there is such a thing as a ‘True Alpha.’

Even though _The Beacon_ ran a special on it.

And all their teachers at school confirmed it.

But a mere hour after the news broke, Freddie Galotti started spreading the wildest conspiracy theories via Panic Radio – stuff like ‘True Alphas are an invention of a secret worldwide Alpha-cult whose plan is to enslave humanity’ – and somehow, people would rather believe whatever a radio host is telling them in a mock-serious tone than listening to a scientist like Dr. Calvin.

The thing is, Freddie Galotti is just more likeable.

It doesn’t help that Derek hasn’t made his daily visit to Beacon Hills High even once during the past week. He’s been too busy talking to the press and world leaders and working out the logistics in a town that is now the home of not one, but two of the rarest creatures in the world, a Spark and a True Alpha.

And they’re best friends, too.

Stiles didn’t even wait to hear what Freddie Galotti had to say about that.

So this is how it’s been after a very disastrous first morning when Scott, naively, walked right into the entire school waiting for him the way they usually wait for Derek.

To kick his ass.

But never again.

Scott’s brilliant idea on Thursday?

He borrowed some of Stiles’ clothes, a regular looking pair of jeans and a hoodie and it actually worked for about an hour, but then Scott started complaining about feeling guilty – turns out those abominable sweaters are the creation of his nana that Stiles immediately dubbed Mrs. Frankenstein which made Allison only _almost_ choke on her apple – and then he came across a couple of dudes from the lacrosse team who, although they’d never spoken to him before, immediately recognized him.

Friday?

Crawl into the biology classroom using the air vents which – Stiles isn’t going to dwell on that.

The point is, Scott never gives up.

It’s one of the many things Stiles likes about him so much.

Then Jane Hinako walks in and starts lecturing.

“What do you think, Stilinski,” Jackson says in a low voice as soon as Hinako turns to the blackboard. Jackson is staring down at his textbook, arms propped up on his desk and hands folded in front of his face to hide the movement of his lips.

“You think he’ll show up in an Elmo-costume? Wonder if they sell dork wigs at Walmart…”

Stiles rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. If Jackson wants to provoke him he’ll have to come up with a wittier remark – or a better insult.

He makes a point of looking straight ahead at the blackboard with a perfectly neutral expression and it would have worked, it probably would have shut Jackson up, but then a lot of things happen at once.

Behind him, Vernon Boyd jumps up from his chair. Stiles can sense his agitation before anyone else can, before Boyd shows it even, and he startles and turns around, quickly, and then Boyd is already on his feet. He’s panting and Stiles catches a hint of sunflower yellow, a pair of glowing eyes, before Boyd dashes out of the room.

“Wha- Mr. Boyd!” Jane Hinako shrieks, while the class only gradually realizes what just happened. “Mr. Boyd, come back in here this instant!”

Stiles meets Allison’s gaze who mouths _‘What’s going on?’_ but Stiles already knows and he can only frown back at her before someone yells, “McCall is here!”

They finally picked up his scent – and for some reason, Vernon Boyd became aware of Scott’s presence before anyone else did.

“Oh, no,” Stiles mutters. He bends down to his bag and hastens to unfasten his bat while all around him, students are jumping to their feet and rushing out the door, completely ignoring their teacher giving every single one of them detention for the rest of the school year.

“You stay in here – how dare you – Mr. Carrow, Mr. Greenberg, Miss Smith! Mr. Mahealani, don’t you dare leave this room!”

“Sorry, Miss Hinako,” Danny says and then hurries after the others, cellphone in his hands already, eager to stock up his McCall-photo collection that has been in high demand for the past couple of days.

Then his bat is in Stiles’ hands. He doesn’t know why, but he’s shaking.

Damn his anxiety. He wishes he could keep his calm at least once in his life, but his anchor is out in the hallway, fighting about a dozen students, and sensing Scott’s agitation is deeply unsettling to him.

“Please, please, please, not now, _not now_ ,” he’s muttering, imploring his spark to stay down, and then he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and starts running.

Allison is shouting in the hallway, commanding people to back away from Scott, but more and more students seem to join them and no wonder. The roars and howls and crashes echo down the hallway and alert every single person in the building to Scott’s presence.

“I cannot believe it!” Jane Hinako hisses and she rolls up her sleeves. She lets her eyes glow and her canines drop, then she rushes out of the room.

For a moment, Stiles is right behind her, but he trips over a bag on the floor and bumps into a desk, and when he picks himself back up, fingers around his bat hurting and knuckles scraped raw, Jackson is in front of him.

They’re alone in the room.

The door swings shut behind Hinako.

Stiles takes a step to the right meaning to simply walk around him, but Jackson moves quickly to block his way again.

“Jackson, what are you doing? I’ve got to help Scott!”

“McCall doesn’t need you out there,” Jackson says. He has his hands in the pockets of his jeans and is looking Stiles up and down.

“And I’ve got to talk to you.”

“I don’t have time for your bullshit right now,” Stiles says heatedly. He lifts his bat and takes a step forward, but Jackson doesn’t budge.

“Just for a minute, Stilinski,” Jackson says. He’s looking down at his sneakers now. “And then I’ll let you go out there. I promise. If you hear me out, I’ll even help.”

Stiles frowns at him.

Whatever this is about, having Jackson’s help would be a good thing.

“Okay, you have sixty seconds.”

“I want to invoke my right to go out with you,” Jackson immediately says.

“ _What?_ ”

Stiles is so puzzled he almost drops his bat and for a moment, he even forgets about the chaos in the hallway.

“I defeated every other contestant,” Jackson insists, “and won the right to take you on a date.”

“What? Are you insane?”

Stiles can’t believe this guy.

He cannot fucking believe –

“The Alpha conceded to my victory. He was there when it was called and he didn’t intervene.”

“Because it’s a bullshit victory! Because it wasn’t even a real contest, you said so yourself! So what the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” Jackson says, and he’s watching Stiles now, “But someone in your position should keep their word.”

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe I even have to say this again – _I’m not going on a date with you!_ ”

“Why?”

Jackson is lifting his eyebrows at him.

Out in the hallway, the crowd goes ‘ _Uuuh!_ ’ and then about fifty voices dissolve into shouts of ‘ _Go, McCall!’_ or ‘ _Die, McCall!_ ’

“Are you serious right now?!”

“Maybe you don’t _want_ to go out with me…,” Jackson starts, face perfectly neutral.

 “You’re damn right I don’t, so get out of my way or I’m going to-”

“…but it wouldn’t hurt you, either. I won the contest, fair and square, the entire school saw it. It would only be _right_ to do it.”

Stiles is staring at him, cheeks red from agitation.

“You can’t be serious,” he says again and Jackson shrugs.

“Make up your mind. If you decide to go, I’ll pick you up at three, after history.”

Then he turns and walks out the door.

Stiles can see him flick his wrists to extend his claws.

“I already made up my mind! You hear me? I’m _not_ going! You fucking-”

Then he stops, curses and clutches his bat to his chest.

“Goddamnit, Jackson…”

And he starts toward the door, finally, lifting his bat and struggling to shake off the turmoil of feelings, the outrage and anger and confusion.

Who the hell does this guy think he is?

 

 

 

When he’s out in the hallway, Erica and Isaac are already there to shield him from twenty different teenage girls’ grabby hands and Scott is already done. He’s on his knees and panting and completely silent, unconscious betas littering the floor around him in a neat circle.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters. “Scott, are you alright? He’s a True Alpha, you idiots!,” addressing the hallway in general, “You _can’t_ take his power! How often do I have to tell you that? God…”

“I’m okay,” Scott finally says. He lifts his arm to wipe away beads of sweat from his forehead.

“He helped,” he adds.

“Who, Jackson?”

“No.”

Stiles follows Scott’s gaze and then they’re both looking at Vernon Boyd who shifts his eyes back to dark brown and nods and withdraws silently.

What the hell?

Boyd helped Scott?

Is that why he dashed out of the room before everyone else did – when Stiles was so sure he, above everyone else, would want to see Scott defeated?

Could Stiles have been so wrong about this dude?

What is his deal anyway?

 

 

 

He’s sitting alone during lunch, Boyd is.

Hoodie pulled up and deep into his face and staring down at his plate, forking up his peas one after the other and no one pays him any attention.

They’re all busy staring at the Spark and attempting to secretly take photos of him and smuggle small gifts into his bag – and at that guy, Scott McCall, who is rumored to be a True Alpha.

No one even asked Vernon Boyd’s name or wondered about his apparent disinterest in Stiles and Scott.

No one notices that his hoodie is the exact same shade of purple as the eyes of the Spark.

 

 

 

_> > Derek 12:35 AM: Are you having lunch?_

_> > Stiles 12:37 AM: Yeah_

_> > Stiles 12:37 AM: But I can’t eat when everyone’s staring at me_

_> > Derek 12:37 AM: Maybe you should try and acquire some manners then_

_> > Stiles 12:37 AM: haha._

_> > Stiles 12:37 AM: very funny_

_> > Stiles 12:38 AM: but seriously_

_> > Stiles 12:38 AM: it’s like they’ll never back off_

_> > Stiles 12:38 AM: I got over a hundred courting gifts today_

_> > Stiles 12:38 AM: insane_

_> > Derek 12:38 AM: you counted them_

_> > Stiles 12:38 AM: so what_

Stiles is staring down at his cellphone.

He wants to tell Derek that if they were promised to become mates, or at least officially dating, things would be easier for Stiles, but Derek already knows that.

He shouldn’t bother him, especially when he, Stiles, is too much of a coward to tell his own dad about them.

It’s so stupid, it’s just – Stiles wants to kiss Derek under a gazebo.

But then, he doesn’t even know when he’s going to see him again. It might be days.

 

 

 

Everyone is already packing up when a static crackle signals an announcement and the entire class sighs, even Mrs. Redbird who is wiping the blackboard mutters, “What does he want now?!” under her breath.

_“Jackson Whittemore to the principal’s office. Jackson Whittemore – please report to the principal’s office,”_ the voice of Gerard’s secretary says and everyone turns to look at Jackson who shrugs, shoulders his bag and marches out of the room.

Stiles frowns.

He closes his bag and pulls his phone out to check the time, when the PA system cracks again.

_“…. Stiles Stilinski – please report to the principal’s office.”_

The words are spoken quickly, as if to make sure that they would be absorbed by the scraping of chairs and noise of hundreds of pairs of feet moving toward the doors – school is out for the day and the roar of the students rushing to leave is bouncing off the walls and echoing in the hallways.

Stiles looks up from his bag, says, “What now?”

It’s completely silent in here though.

Everyone’s eyes are on him.

“Danny, what does Gerard want with Stiles and Jackson?” someone is whispering, but Danny just shakes his head and shrugs like ‘ _How would I know?’_

Stiles sighs.

It’s not like he has a choice here.

He meets Scott’s eyes who shrugs, a worried look on his face.

Then he takes his bag and walks out of the room.

 

 

 

When Stiles knocks, Harris opens the door to let him in.

Gerard is behind his giant desk, looking positively monarchic – no surprise there – despite his ugly yellow Hawaiian shirts that has reindeers with sunglasses on it, and Harris hastens to close the door and stand behind the headmaster like his creepy, pale shadow.

To Gerard’s right, standing next to his desk is Jackson – of course, even though Stiles has no idea as to what Jackson could want here.

“What – is going on?” Stiles says and Gerard’s eyes narrow.

“Ill-bred as always,” he snarls. “But alright, then we’ll skip the proper greeting, won’t we – Mr. Whittemore here,” with a nod at Jackson, “has invoked the school codex.”

Stiles frowns.

“The school codex?”

“Yes, Mr. Stilinski, the school codex. The book of rules and moral statements that indicates how a student at Beacon Hills High is to, ideally, behave. The one that you especially, as a Spark, should be familiar with. But then,” and he gives Stiles one of his mock-friendly smiles, “I didn’t expect you to either. Be it as it may – Mr. Whittemore let us know that you are not honoring – your engagement.”

“I’m – what? Jackson,” and Stiles turns to him. “What the hell?”

But Jackson calmly meets his gaze like _‘What?’_ and stays silent.

“Mr. Stilinski, since it seems like I have to remind you that a certain kind of conduct is proper in this room: you are not to use that kind of language in front of the headmaster.”

Stiles bites back a snide comment and stares at his sneakers.

“Good,” Gerard says who apparently interprets Stiles’ demeanor as submissiveness. “To make sure that we are all on the same page here. Mr. Whittemore has asked for his prize in a certain tournament. The very one that was organized by an unknown group of rampant teenagers who, very carefully, and in an excellent demonstration of their criminal energy, made sure to block my door and lock me in my office – out of which I had to be rescued by the janitor.”

Despite his current anger, Stiles has to suppress a grin.

So none of the teachers bothered to let Gerard out.

They all went home, cheerfully ignoring the shouts and curses from the principal’s office.

Well, that certainly says a lot about what they think of his regime here at school.

“Wait, what do you mean, unknown?” Stiles repeats. “It was _your_ daughter! Kate Argent.”

“Hearsay,” Gerard says back, baring his pearly teeth at Stiles. “Anyway – I do not hold grudges,” an outright lie as Stiles can easily tell, “…and Mr. Whittemore has been confirmed to have been the winner of the contest. Isn’t that so?”

Jackson nods and Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

So that’s what this is all about.

The little rat.

Acting all disinterested when he came to Scott’s help that day, only to do this to him now. Stiles should have known.

“I never agreed to be the prize in some stupid contest!”

Gerard lifts his eyebrows at him.

“Didn’t you though? I heard differently. According to _my_ sources-”

“ _Your_ sources?” Stiles spits out sarcastically, but Gerard raises his voice, “Yes! My sources! I will not be interrupted!”

He rises behind his desk, looming large and dangerous in front of him now. Stiles still can’t wrap his head around the fact that Gerard is human when he clearly has the aura of some kind of monster.

He tells himself to calm his anger and shut the hell up. He’s already in enough trouble as it is.

Thanks to _Jackson_.

And what are these stupid reindeer laughing about?!

Stiles shoots Jackson a venomous glare, but Jackson just lifts his eyebrows at him.

“As long as you are a student at _my_ school,” Gerard announces, “You will honor your promises! You promised to spend time with the winner of a school contest-”

“I did no such thing! And it wasn’t a school contest!”

Stiles is so mad. He is kneading his hands and staring at the golden pineapple on Gerard’s desk to keep himself from freaking out and getting detention for the next few months.

Luckily, Gerard seems to exceedingly enjoy Stiles’ outrage. Tormenting the Spark, apparently, is what makes Gerard’s week.

“…and if you want to avoid being thrown out of this school which would, no doubt, draw a lot of public attention – you better honor the deal and let Mr. Whittemore take you on a courting date.”

Of course, this is all Kate’s doing. Unbelievable.

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Gerard smirks and sits back down.

“I am establishing a few ground rules which you seem to be in desperate need of, given your father’s – _education_.”

“Don’t you dare insult my dad,” Stiles grits out, but Gerard smiles at him innocently. “I’m not going on a date with Jackson. You can’t force me to. If I’m expelled, I just go to a different school. It’s not like this dump is so great.”

“A different school?” Gerard says gleefully, completely ignoring Stiles’ language. “Without your anchor, Scott McCall?”

Stiles’ head snaps up.

“I’m familiar with Mr. McCall’s financial situation. He wouldn’t be able to afford any of the other schools in this district – that are all private, Mr. Stilinski. In case you weren’t aware of that.”

Right.

Curse Gerard and his predatory instincts. It’s true, Stiles needs Scott – and neither Scott nor he could afford a private school.

But then he remembers something and he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sure they’d be more than willing to take in a Spark and a True Alpha.”

“Are you though?” Gerard says. “Well, if you say so… Adrian,” and he turns to Mr. Harris who had been hovering behind him in complete silence this entire time, “hand me the paperwork.”

Mr. Harris extends his arm, picks up a stack of papers from the outer end of the desk and moves them a little further to the left, so they are right in front of Gerard’s eyes.

Of course.

Of course, Gerard would be prepared.

Stiles cannot believe this is happening. That he walked into one of Gerard’s traps again.

“If you are certain that everyone in this town will welcome you with open arms – I can fill out the forms to expel you and Mr. McCall – right now.”

Stiles closes his eyes in horror. He thinks of the anonymous caller, last week on Panic Radio, and the fact that most people probably wouldn’t be too happy about having the Spark at their school.

What is he supposed to do?

He doesn’t want Scott to get expelled because of him.

Maybe Gerard is bluffing and he doesn’t have the power he claims he does, but – there is nothing Stiles can do about it right now.

Except –

“Okay.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stilinski?”

“Okay,” Stiles grits out. “I’ll do it.” He bites his tongue to keep himself from cursing and thinks that at least time alone with Jackson will give him the chance to punch him. He clutches his bag tighter, pointedly not looking over at Jackson. That little piece of –

“Wonderful,” Gerard says and claps his hands. “Sparks may not be as intelligent as humans, but I knew you could be reasoned with.”

_He’s just trying to make you angry, Stiles._

_Just ignore it._

“I’ll let your father know you’ll be home late. You are both excused from homework for today.”

Jackson grins and nods and Stiles just turns around and away from Gerard.

When he’s at the door, he stops, and turns back.

“What are you getting out of this?” he says and Gerard smirks.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr. Stilinski. Establishing order at my school is my absolute priority. Enjoy yourselves, gentlement. Adrian – close the door behind them.”

 

 

 

“What are you so fucking happy about,” Stiles mutters gloomily. He is walking down the corridor alongside Jackson who has his hands in his pockets and looks incredibly satisfied with himself. “You must be aware of the fact that I’m going to have to kill you now. Slowly and brutally. I’m gonna start with punching that smug grin out of your stupid fucking face.”

“Ah, you’re angry now, Stilinski, but consider it like this: it’s really a win-win situation. I get all the attention of having secured the first date with the Spark and you – get to make your Alpha jealous.”

“What? Are you insane?”

“Smile,” Jackson says and he gives Stiles a shove to push him through the double doors.

Stiles had hoped that the school grounds would be just as deserted as the hallways, but of course he is disappointed. A crowd of students is gathered out here, at least three hundred of them. It seems like they were all waiting to learn, somehow, why exactly the Spark was called into the headmaster’s office. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Stiles can see innumerable paparazzi and reporters in their usual spots, lined up on the sidewalk and behind bushes and trees just beyond the lawn.

They raise their cameras as soon as they spot Stiles, and Jackson puts his hand in the small of Stiles’ back and flashes his most handsome smile.

“You do realize that they’re never going to leave you alone now,” Stiles mutters, but Jackson smiles a little more brightly and shakes his head.

“That’s what you never understood, Stilinski. There’s people like you or Hale who can’t handle fame – and then there’s people like me who were born for it.”

Stiles takes a step away from him, a sour look on his face.

“God, you’re such a jackass. How Lydia could even bear you for a minute is unfathomable to me.”

But Jackson just smiles and guides Stiles down the steps, careful not to touch him because Stiles freaking out on him in public would ruin his clever plan – and the photos, it would ruin the photos.

All Stiles can think of is that if Jackson thinks he can mess with Derek, he is gravely mistaken.

He just hopes that he’ll get the chance to tell Derek himself before he hears it from someone else or worse, sees a photo of Jackson with his hand in Stiles’ back.

 

 

 

Stiles is still texting him, trying to explain, when someone steps in their way. He looks up from his pone and is met with a pair of yellow eyes and a pretty face framed with strands of silver hair that have dissolved from her ponytail.

It’s Willow.

Uh, right.

The girl who stepped down from the contest when Stiles asked her to – and the very one he rejected just this very morning.

Honest to God, he’d rather go see a movie with Willow than sit in Jackson’s douchy sports for even ten seconds.

“I -,” Stiles immediately starts stammering and blushing. “I wasn’t lying earlier, I mean, I don’t go on dates, I swear, this is-”

“Relax,” Willow says. She’s chewing her pink chewing gum and putting her hands on her hips to consider them together. Then she scrunches up her face like it’s the worst image she has ever seen.

“No one in their right mind would go out with a stinkworm like Jackson Whittemore. Besides, my friend and I here were squatting outside the window and we heard every word. That eel trapped you.”

She takes a step backward and Stiles has to blink a few times to understand that the ‘friend’ she is referring to – is Corey. Willow nudges him in the ribs and Corey gives Stiles a shy smile.

Allison, Scott and Lydia step up behind them.

Lydia is glaring at Jackson like she wants to strangle him right then and there, Allison is pointing her crossbow at him and Scott says, “Are you okay, man?” to Stiles.

Stiles sighs – and nods.

Boys and girls around them are craning their necks to get a good look at the Spark and they’re telling each other to shut up so they can hear what he’s saying.

“We already know what happened. I’ll be right behind you,” Scott says with a dark look at Jackson.

“With your ratty old bike, McCall?” Jackson says smugly. “I drive a Porsche Boxster.”

Allison rolls her eyes so hard they almost fall out of her head and Willow cracks her knuckles and says, “You’re going to regret this, Jerkmore!”

Jackson shrugs and grins.

“Come on.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment, but then decides that it would be idiotic. Gerard would know and they’d all be in a lot of trouble then.

Not worth it.

Let Jackson have his moment and Stiles can always beat it after half an hour.

After all, there really is one big advantage to it: this might take some of the attention away from Stiles and Scott, and Stiles wouldn’t mind that.

He wouldn’t mind it at all.

“Alright, but you drive me home as soon as I can’t bear you anymore which should be in no time. Jerkmore. I like the sound of that.”

 

 

 

When he’s in Jackson’s car he refuses to talk with him, but as soon as they’re out in the parking lot, Stiles says, “You do realize that you’re going to have to face Derek.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Jackson says and locks his Porsche. And then, “It’s impolite to be texting on a date.”

Stiles finishes typing and then puts his phone away.

“You mean the one you bullied me into, you fucking prick? I texted Scott the address. He’s going to get me out of here in no time.”

“You call me a prick when you’re the one who treats people like they’re his servants.”

“If I were you, I’d shut up now,” Stiles says darkly.

Jackson shrugs and then they’re walking and Stiles can’t believe he’s actually doing this. Derek never answered his messages and Stiles hopes that he will forgive him. It’s not like this is a real date or anything.

“You’re going to bring _this_?” Jackson says a moment later, when they’re at the door of a pretty fancy looking restaurant. He’s looking at the bat Stiles is twirling in his right hand.

“Keep walking.”

Jackson holds the door for him with a sour expression on his face and then they’re inside.

Stiles was right.

This is a fancy place – but it’s half empty since it’s half past three in the afternoon, not really the perfect time for either lunch or dinner. The way Jackson secured his date, however, required for him to take Stiles right after school or never.

So, yeah.

Here they are.

“I made a reservation for two,” Jackson says. “Whittemore.”

Meanwhile, Stiles is looking around. Everything in here looks expensive, from the heavy white tablecloths to the flower arrangements in the corners. About a dozen people are seated at tables, forking up 12-dollar-pieces of cake and drinking Italian espresso out of tiny cups.

Stiles feels uncomfortably aware of his old jeans and dirty sneakers.

“Whittemore is the name,” Jackson says again, clearly annoyed because the waitress isn’t doing anything.

That’s because she’s staring at Stiles.

“Ahm. Hi,” Stiles says, fidgeting around awkwardly. He feels unable to meet her wide-eyed stare, so he averts his gaze and it lands on a little gold figurine on the counter.

Huh?

Strange.

This looks oddly familiar.

It’s the small statue of a lacrosse player, for whatever reason in a uniform of the Beacon High Cyclones, in dramatic posture, legs akimbo, its face hidden behind the helmet and turned toward the sky. Its right that is holding a tiny golden lacrosse stick is raised high in the air above its head. On the jersey – the number 24.

His jaw drops.

It’s his number – the 24 is _his_ jersey.

It’s him.

Oh, my God.

This is a golden statue of him, of Stiles.

Stiles is staring at it, unable to wrap his head around the image.

“It, er – it commemorates – _that_ night – on the lacrosse field of Beacon Hills High,” the waitress explains. She sounds breathless and her cheeks are bright red. “We put it here to – to ask a blessing upon this house. One of my colleagues was there, she has a son at the school. She – _saw_.”

“Our tables,” Jackson repeats ungraciously.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry, yes, please follow me!”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say besides, “Don’t worry, it’s okay,” and “Thank you.”

When they’re seated, Stiles can see the waitress turn away from them and immediately bury her face in her hands in mortification and he feels sorry for her. He didn’t mean to ruin her day.

It’s so weird that his mere presence would have this effect on people. Quite frankly, he doesn’t really know how to deal with it and he wonders whether he ever will.

“Moron,” Jackson snorts cruelly with a look at the waitress’s back. Then he grabs the menu and starts studying it. “Order whatever you want.”

Stiles frowns.

He’s uncomfortably aware of the fact that every single person in the restaurant stopped eating. They’re all staring at him now, tiny espresso cups hovering in front of their mouths, forgotten.

Stiles picks up his own menu and buries his face in it and hopes that it won’t take Scott too long to find him. He has this feeling that the strange environment and the knowledge to be far removed from both his anchors might unsettle his spark. It’s never a problem when he’s at home in his own room, but – there’s no telling what might happen here.

“The plateau-de-fruit-de-mer is _excellent_ here”, Jackson says haughtily and Stiles rolls his eyes.

God, it’s bad enough to be stared at by every single person in the entire room, but to share this experience with the biggest douche at Beacon Hills High – this is clearly not his day.

Then it gets worse – or, that is, it gets even stranger – because a group of people come in and they choose the table right behind Jackson and Stiles immediately recognizes the new kid from his class, Vernon Boyd.

Boyd shoots him a look, but doesn’t acknowledge Stiles in any other way. He’s with three dudes, clearly older than him, and they’re wearing identical purple hoodies – and for the first time, Stiles notices the color.

“Stiles?” Jackson says and Stiles goes, “Huh?”

“To drink.”

Stiles is blinking at him.

Jackson sighs.

“Just bring him the homemade lemonade.”

And it’s not just the color. Staring at Boyd and his weird friend group now, Stiles realizes that it’s the exact same hoodie he himself has in his closet – it’s his favorite hoodie, too. He used to wear it all the time.

“Oh, my God,” he mutters. How fucking creepy is that?

“What?” Jackson says and he turns in his chair, but Stiles just shakes his head.

So, he was right, of course he was.

He knew this Boyd dude was up to _something_ and maybe – who knows.

Maybe he’s one of the real fanatics.

Jackson orders their food – Stiles really doesn’t care, he has no idea what any of the French terms mean anyway and he’s confused because he thought this was an Italian place – and then Jackson clears his throat and says in a low voice, “So… okay, I get that you dislike me-”

“That’s an understatement,” Stiles says. He flicks his eyes over to Jackson’s face.

“Why do you always have to be so fucking mean? I mean – you don’t even like me, I really don’t get what this is about. Like, are you so obsessed with being in the spotlight? Oh, and I meant to punch you for what you did to Lydia – and to me, come to think of it – but this is kind of a fancy place, so remind me when we’re outside…”

“It’s not true.”

“What? Of course I want to punch you, look at my fist – really, _really_ eager to get buried in that smug face of yours -”

“No, I mean – that I don’t like you.”

Jackson’s cheeks turn a faint shade of red and Stiles – narrows his eyes. He lowers his fist.

“I don’t buy it.”

“I didn’t use to,” Jackson mutters, still trying to keep his voice so low that betas at the other tables won’t be able to discern his words over the sound of the classical music. “And when I-” But he stops, then starts again, “That time in the classroom? That was not – I regret doing that, okay?”

“That’s a crappy apology.”

“Okay, okay – I’m _sorry_.” He stares at his lemonade angrily as if it had somehow insulted him. “Happy now?”

“I never wanted to be on this date, so – no, no I’m not happy,” Stiles says back drily.

“Alright, I got it,” Jackson grits out. “The thing is – in the beginning I did it for – the power. Okay? Yes. But – when you faced Kate, I realized that – we’re not so different.”

Stiles looks at him in mock-outrage.

“You take that back!”

“I mean – you were – kind of – brave – even though I could sense that you were scared and – I kinda – started liking you. Okay? In earnest.”

Stiles frowns.

Jackson is sitting there in front of him, blushing and once again Stiles feels like he slipped through a glitch in the timespace continuum and into a parallel universe. He’s moving his jaw, struck speechless for a moment by the nicest thing he ever heard Jackson Whittemore say about anyone, so he doesn’t react in time when Jackson extends his hand.

Apparently, he took Stiles’ stunned silence as some kind of agreement, because he reaches for his hand on the table – but then, he never makes it.

Before Jackson can even bring his finger within an inch of Stiles’ hand, the table is being flipped over and Stiles, shocked out of his mind, scoots away from it and almost topples over backwards with his chair.

Their glasses shatter on the floor and lemonade spills everywhere.

“What the-”

Jackson has jumped up and he’s wolfed-out, his neon yellow eyes set on none other than Vernon Boyd who is right in front of him.

He must be the one who flipped over the table because he snarls, “You don’t touch the Spark without his permission!”

He’s glowing his eyes dangerously at Jackson, and then he raises his claw – and attacks.

“Holy – _shit_ ,” Stiles mutters. Luckily, their waitress is with him all of a sudden, pulling at his sweater to get him to move out of the betas’ range.

He can hear Jackson hiss, “What the – cut it out! _Fuck_ …”

The people in the restaurant are on their feet now and a moment later they’re ducking behind their tables, trying to avoid being hit by a chair or the leg of a table because Jackson and Boyd are throwing pieces of furniture at each other now.

Stiles’ aluminum bat is on the floor next to Jackson. If Stiles could only reach it – he’s been training himself to call on his powers with the help of the bat, so maybe, if he could get his hands on it, it might help nudge his spark awake.

Only a little bit – not to trigger a fully-fledged power surge. But a little bit, to stop this mess. To give everyone a scare, just a tiny one, you see, and stop Jackson and Boyd from wrecking this place.

Stiles is on his knees now, ducking down – Jackson is fighting all four of the purple-hoodie-dudes now – and crawling in the direction of his bat, thinking, _‘Just a few feet, just a little closer, come on!’_

Then, suddenly, he can feel his own eyes flare up – and the bat springs into his hand.

“Yes!”

He jumps to his feet – but before he can do anything, the restaurant doors burst open and a black shadow sweeps into the room.

It’s Derek and when he comes to a halt, he has Jackson by the throat.

He lifts him up into the air – Jackson’s feet dangle helplessly to the left and right – and then brings him down on the nearest table that collapses with a loud snap.

“I told you to stay the _fuck_ away from him,” Derek snarls and, oh, boy, is he angry.

“Derek, I think you’re choking him,” Stiles says.

“Good,” Derek snarls and tightens his grip around Jackson’s throat.

“Derek, stop.” He wraps his hands around Derek’s muscular arm and tries to pull it away from Jackson, but the purple flame in his eyes has died down again and he can’t get Derek to even move an inch.

“Derek! Dude…”

Scott and Allison are here now and both immediately rush to help Stiles keeping their Alpha from strangling a sixteen-year-old in the fancy French place.

“Derek, come one,” Scott mutters, “Do you really want your first kill to be a minor who went on a date with the Spark?”

Derek growls – and loosens his grip.

He straightens his back and watches as Jackson gasps for air. He struggles to a sitting position and shoots Derek a terrified look.

“Mmph,” Derek snorts. He lets his knuckles crack and his red eyes fade back to hazel. “Your luck, Whizzmore.”

“Whittemore,” Jackson coughs.

“Whatever,” Derek says.

“And who are these clowns?” with a nod at figures in identical hoodies who are lurking silently behind an upturned table.

“That’s – it’s Vernon Boyd, right?” Scott says, a look of surprise on his face.

Boyd pulls his hood up and deep into his face and then the four figures are galloping toward the exit.

“Hey! You have to pay for the damage! Hey!” the waitress calls after them. Then she turns to Derek.

“Oh, Alpha, thank God you showed up. They would have killed us all, if you hadn’t stopped them.”

“That’s not at all what happened,” Stiles says with a frown, but Derek is already dragging him out of the restaurant.

“Wait, Derek, _ouch_! My bat! And my bag!”

 

 

 

When Derek lets go of him, they’re behind the restaurant, next to a couple of overflowing dumpsters. The large graffiti on the wall behind them says

_what happened on the lacrosse field ???_

Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and hesitantly meets Derek’s gaze.

“I’m – really sorry, I didn’t mean to – did you get my messages? It’s like I said, it wasn’t a real date, Gerard made me and I couldn’t think of a way to get out- _mmmnnnnrghl_ ”

The rest of his sentence is stifled by Derek’s mouth. He’s pushing Stiles up against the wall and kissing him heatedly.

Stiles’ eyes flutter closed and his mind goes blank.

 

 

 

“So,” Stiles says. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips feel sore.

“You’re the jealous type, mh?”

“I may have – overreacted a little.”

“You think?”

Derek runs his hand through his hair.

“I just – fucking hate that feeling. Not being able to do anything, when-”

But he stops himself and then they’re just looking at each other, unsaid words hanging in the air between them.

Like the fact that there would be an easy solution to that problem.

But Derek averts his gaze and clears his throat.

“I’m gonna go have a talk with Gerard.”

He’s working his jaw.

“What are you going to do to him?”

Derek bares his teeth.

“Oh, nothing much. I’m just going to scare him a little bit.”

And then he’s already gone and Stiles is alone, rubbing his forehead, wondering what the hell just happened.

“Whaddup?” he says to the dumpsters, then sighs and walks over to where Scott and Allison are waiting for him.

 

 

 

_“They call themselves The Order and they have sworn absolute and lifelong devotion to the young Spark, Stiles Stilinski,”_ Freddie Galotti’s voice is saying. _“And they’re pretty visible around town, too, isn’t that right, Jenny?”_

_“That’s right, Freddie,”_ Jenny responds. _“Many of our listeners have reported that they’ve seen the trademark purple hoodies all over town, from the Crab Shack to Walmart…”_

Stiles chokes on his coffee and starts coughing.

Purple hoodies?

Absolute and lifelong devotion to the Spark, Stiles Stilinski.

He _knew_ it – he fucking knew it.

So, that’s what this is all about.

_“So – who are they?”_ Jenny says, voicing Stiles’ thoughts. _“And, what most of our listeners want to know – are they dangerous?”_

_“Well, it seems like they’re not posing a threat right now, at least not as far as we know, even though there was an incident at DeMichelle’s only a few hours ago – four members of The Order devastated the place and then ran from the scene and – from what we know, folks – the Spark himself was involved and so was our Alpha. I’m dying to hear what happened! And – I have this feeling that we will know soon! We managed to get Lindsey on the line, exclusively for our listeners here, at Panic Radio. Lindsey cleans tables at DeMichelle’s and she saw what happened-”_

Stiles turns the knob and the radio falls silent. He already listened to an hour of speculations about the events at the fanciest restaurant in Beacon Hills, he doesn’t feel like he can stomach even a minute more of that bullshit.

“Is that coffee left over from this morning?”

The sheriff walks into the kitchen. Stiles scrunches up his nose.

“No, dad, because I’m not disgusting. I just made it. It’s decaf.”

His dad huffs and pours himself a cup.

“So – I’ve been hearing weird stuff all day – more weird stuff than usual – and I have to ask, son – are you dating Jackson Whittemore?”

“What? No, dad!”

“But you two did go on a courting date. I’m asking because my deputy took an odd call from headmaster Argent this afternoon…”

Stiles rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“That was _after_ he practically bullied me to go on that date with Jackson…”

“Bullied you?” The sheriff takes a sip of his coffee. “Why would Gerard Argent want you to go out with Jackson?”

Stiles shrugs.

“No idea, really – maybe because of his daughter. Because of Kate.”

“But…,” John Stilinski frowns, “Why would Kate Argent want Jackson Whittemore to court you?”

Stiles hides his face behind his cup.

“No idea, dad. Because she’s crazy.”

His father snorts.

“You can say that again. Quite frankly, even though this Whittemore kid is kind of a douche, I’m glad it’s him and not Kate. I was really worried that Kate Argent might start courting you. You should hear some of the stories – there was a time when Derek couldn’t spend a day without being harassed by that woman and she came up with the craziest plans to make his life hell…”

He shakes his head and lifts the cup to his lips.

“I mean, you saw enough of her to know that she’s still obsessed with him. Really, with everything she has done since you awoke, it’s almost like she thinks…,” but he trails off, staring blankly ahead. Then frowns.

“…like Kate considers you her competition. Like she wants you out of the way.”

The sheriff puts his cup down and eyes his son.

“Weird,” Stiles says, pointedly avoiding his father’s gaze. “But whatcha gonna do, right? I mean, two thirds of the Argents I’m familiar with are insane… so…. Okay, I got a lot of homework to do.”

When Stiles jumps up the stairs, his heart is beating loudly in his chest.

That was close.

His dad has infallible instincts. It won’t be long before his old man will put two and two together.

 

 

 

In hindsight, Stiles should have told him.

When he’s in the kitchen the next morning and pouring milk over his cereal, he doesn’t know yet – he doesn’t know that in five minutes, he’s going to wish he would have taken that chance the night before and simply told his dad about Derek.

It would have been infinitely better than this.

Infinitely better than turning around, bowl of Cheerios in his hands, and seeing his dad seated at the kitchen table, legs crossed and his ridiculous Finding Nemo-slippers on his feet, cup of coffee in his right and the newspaper in his left.

It’s this morning’s _Beacon_ and it takes Stiles a while to make out the familiar shapes in the upside-down photo on the back that covers the lower half of the newspaper – the one that his dad, apparently, hasn’t seen yet and will only see once he opens the paper.

“Ha,” his dad is saying now. He puts his cup down and pushes his glasses up his nose. “Your ‘date’ made the headlines. Look at that – ‘Beacon Hills High student and lacrosse player Brian Whizzmore (14) has taken the young Spark, Stiles Stilinski, on a courting date.’”

Stiles snorts.

“Does it really say Brian Whizzmore?”

“Yeah – 14 years of age…”

“Oh, my God… so much for Jackson’s fame…”

He starts spooning up his Cheerios, still staring at the photograph. What the hell is that?

It looks like two people – two guys. Oddly familiar, too.

Stiles tilts his head to the right shoulder to make out the upside-down image.

“Stiles,” his father lowers the newspaper, “Would you please sit down? You’re spilling milk everywhere.”

“Mmkay.”

And just then, when his dad picks the newspaper up again, Stiles realizes who the people in the photo are – and his jaw drops.

Holy Jesus – it’s _him_.

And Derek.

And they’re kissing.

It’s a photo of their kiss behind the restaurant and, oh, my God –

“No, dad, don’t!” he yells, but his dad has already unfolded the paper and he’s staring at the photograph for a long second before the cereal bowl slips out of Stiles’ fingers and the sheriff is drenched in milk and covered in Cheerios. The bowl lands on the table with a clutter.

In his attempt to get over there fast and rip the newspaper out of his dad’s hands, Stiles tripped over his own feet.

What a surprise.

His father, however, doesn’t seem to notice that milk is dripping from the tip of his nose and onto his uniform. He is still staring at the photo.

“Please, blink,” Stiles says, taking a few steps back and away from the table, just in case, “You look really creepy when you’re not blinking.”

“Hey, Stiles,” his dad says without taking his eyes from the paper. “Here’s a really good photo of you.”

“Oh – oh, really?”

“Yeah. Derek’s in it, too. Did you know that?”

“Er… r-really?”

“Yeah. Come here and take a look at it.”

“N-no, thanks. I’d – prefer to stay over here. Where it’s safe.”

“Suit yourself,” the sheriff says, still staring at the photo. “And, Stiles?”

“Y-yeah?”

“You’re grounded. Until you’re sixty.”

 

 

 

Even though his dad took both his werewolf tasers to work that morning, it went better than Stiles would have thought. It seems like he’s disappointed at Stiles for not telling him, but mostly, he’s furious at Derek for “seducing an impressionable sixteen-year-old behind his heavily-armed father’s back.”

His father was so angry when he ran out of the house that he didn’t even make Stiles wait for his security escort and Stiles just walked out to his Jeep and drove himself to school.

“Dude, did you see?!” Scott comes running across the parking lot and he’s waving something that looks a lot like today’s issue of _The Beacon_. He slithers to a halt right in front of Stiles.

“Hey, you drove your Jeep! Congrats, bro.”

“Thanks, bro,” Stiles mutters. He takes the paper from Scott’s hands and unfolds it.

His face flushes as soon as he sees the photo.

Even though his dad was being ironic when he said it, it kind of is a good photo of Stiles.

So this is what his kissing face looks like…

“Sorry, man…,” Scott says. “But look on the bright side – the photo is kinda hot. Plus, you both look really good in it.”

Well, Scott has a point, it does look hot – Stiles being pushed up against the wall like that by the most handsome man in the universe.

The caption reads: _The Alpha and the Spark were spotted sharing a passionate kiss behind DeMichelle’s yesterday afternoon._

“Oh – God,” Stiles growls. He hands Scott the paper so he can hide his face in his hands.

“Do you think – people know about it already?” he mutters through his fingers.

“Hate to break it to you, bro, but – _everyone_ does. It’s all they’re talking about. Danny is already selling high gloss copies of the photo all over school and he says that people are going absolutely crazy. They want more photos of you and Derek together like that. There were requests of different angles and stuff.”

“Jesus,” Stiles mutters. Then he looks over to the school building. “I don’t wanna go in there…”

“Why?” Scott gives him an encouraging smile. “Come on, dude, that’s not a bad thing! People knowing that Derek is gonna be your mate – that’s a cause for celebration!”

“He’s not,” Stiles says meekly.

“What?”

“We’re not – we’re not going to be mates.”

His shoulders slouch a little.

“What do you mean?” Scott lets out a confused laugh and pats Stiles’ back. “Of course you are!”

He holds the newspaper up in front of Stiles’ face.

“Just look at the way Derek is sucking at your lips, man! You guys are true mates, if I’ve ever seen any!”

“It’s not that easy,” Stiles says. He shoulders his bag and starts walking.

“What do you mean, not that easy? He gives you a bonding-bracelet, you’re having your ceremony in March and then – wild, hot sex.”

“Jeez, Scott-”

“I mean, you can have sex before that of course, but, I hear that claiming sex is just insane…”

“Please, stop.”

“Alphas naturally love to be dominant, so – has Derek said anything? About how he wants to do it? Come on, bro, now that the truth is out there, you can tell your best friend.”

Stiles is just shaking his head and walking faster because he knows that Scott will shut up as soon as they come within hearing range of the other weres at school.

The thing is – he’d really love to talk with Scott about all that, he really really would.

But – he can’t.

He can’t because Derek has made his intentions pretty clear.

He’s not going to take a mate and that’s that.

 

 

 

“Ugh, Allison, not you, too!” Stiles groans. He swipes the newspaper-cutout of himself being kissed by Derek off her table.

“What? It’s a really hot photo,” Allison says back, blushing. “You should see the ones I took of me and Scott kissing. I wanted to make a collage for my room, but I had to give up on it. To say that he doesn’t photograph well would be an understatement.”

“I feel your pain, Allison” Danny Mahealani says. He walks over to them, a stack of photos in his hands – probably the copies Scott was talking about. “Still, that one photo I took of Scott with red Alpha-eyes is a real seller. Since it’s the only photographic evidence of Scott’s Alpha status. I already sold over two hundred and fifty copies of it.”

“You mean the one that was in _The Beacon_?” Allison says and Danny nods.

“You took that?”

Another nod.

Then Danny looks down at the pictures in his hands with a satisfied smile.

“Nothing compared to these babies, however…”

“Did _you_ take it? This one, too? Because if you did, Danny, I swear-” Stiles says heatedly.

“Ha, I wish! But no – I made a scan of that newspaper image and touched it up a bit.”

“Do you know who took it then?”

Danny shrugs.

“One of those paparazzi who are following in your tracks like they’re your shadows? Did you know Coach found one in the air vent in his office? Says he meant to sneak into the history classroom and secretly take photos of you, but then got lost…”

“Morons,” Lydia Martin says. She drops her Chanel bag on her desk and shoots the photo in Stiles’ hand a quick look.

“So – your date went well?”

“I wouldn’t say that, no,” Stiles mutters. He scrunches the cutout up, then thinks about it for a moment, smoothes the paper out again, folds it up and slides it into the pocket of his sweater. He feels like he’ll want to look at it again and more closely laterand in privacy, and he couldn’t bear the humiliation of having to buy an overpriced copy from Danny.

“Whaddup, Brian?” Lydia says loudly and when Stiles looks up, Jackson is walking into the room, an exceedingly sour look on his face.

“I think I get it now,” she continues. “You know, when you said that I never really knew you? I guess you were right. I never even knew your _real name_ …”

“Shut – the fuck – up,” Jackson grits out and Lydia cackles cruelly.

“Brian Whizzmore. And just think of it – you were the very first one to take the Spark on a courting date – not that it really mattered because – _this_ ,” she waves one of Danny’s copies in Jackson’s face, “but at least your _name_ will go down in history. AmIrite?”

“You – goddamn – _witch_.”

Jackson is working his jaws and he looks like he’s this close to freaking out on Lydia. Luckily, Coach Finstock chooses this moment to walk into the room.

Finstock returns to pyramid schemes and Stiles returns to his thoughts.

Vernon Boyd’s seat in the back of the room is empty.

So he’s a fanatic – but he was also kinda protecting Stiles, wasn’t he?

But there was literally nothing he could find out about the so-called Order. Whatever these people were, they’ve only existed for a very brief time, presumably since the world became aware of Stiles a couple of weeks ago.

And if his lack of information about the Order wasn’t already unsatisfactory enough, Stiles hasn’t heard from Derek yet. Stiles has no idea what he thinks of the picture and – staring anxiously ahead at the blackboard – whether his dad has caught up with him. He messaged Derek to warn him, but so far, Derek hasn’t answered.

What is going to happen now?

Is Scott right? Is it a good thing that everyone will know about – whatever it is that Stiles and Derek are to each other?

What is his dad going to do about it? His dad who always stressed how young Stiles is, and how inappropriate it would be for him to be with Derek at this age.

Derek is one of his anchors, the sheriff couldn’t forbid him from seeing Stiles.

Or – could he?

What if he insists on being in the room with the two of them at all time? He can’t kiss Derek with his dad watching, he just can’t.

Then again – thinking of the photo that seems to grow heavier and heavier in his pocket – he kind of already did.

Because his dad ended up seeing it – _everyone_ did.

 

 

 

_“Look at his arm. Did you see his arm?”_

_“I can’t see it – his sleeve is down.”_

_“Jane sent me a photo, she says there’s something there – wait, here! Look!”_

_“What? I don’t see anything.”_

_“Shshsh! He’ll hear you!”_

Stiles rolls his eyes and turns back to his salad. Due to his Spark senses he can hear every single word that is being spoken about him in the cafeteria and he’s mostly struggling to tune it out. Because, yeah.

They’re _all_ talking about him.

“Why is everyone obsessing over my arm? It’s like they wanna see whether I have the Dark Mark etched into my skin or something…”

“Mh, it’s probably to see whether you’re wearing a mating bracelet,” Allison is saying. She’s sitting to his right and spooning up her pudding. Her crossbow is on the table in front of her. “You know – whether Derek already gave you one and what it looks like.”

“Oh – God…” Stiles buries his face in his palms.

“It’s kind of a big deal, too, mating bracelets,” Allison continues. “They’re an important part of the mating process.”

Stiles resurfaces from behind his hands. “Of course they are.”

He tugs at his left sleeve to make sure his wrist is completely covered.

“Or,” Lydia says when she catches the gesture, “you could just roll your sleeves up, show everyone and end the speculation.”

She shoots him a haughty look.

“You know. Just an idea.”

Stiles ignores her. Lydia hasn’t been in a good mood since Jackson dumped her and Stiles has no patience for her toxic comments today.

“But it’s kind of a beautiful thing, don’t you think?” Allison is saying now. She is smiling dreamily. “When I was a little girl, my mum taught me how to make them and I would go out and collect leaves and herbs and dry them, braid them into a bracelet the way you’re supposed to, and imagine my promised mate gave it to me.”

“Really?” Scott says, surprised. He just took a giant bite from his burger that he swallows almost without chewing and says. “What er – what herbs did you use? I mean – when you were a kid?”

Stiles shoots his best friend a grin and a look like, ‘ _Smooth, man. Really smooth._ ’

“Oh, I would use a lot of lavender and poppy, and my mom had this Algerian mandrake – the leaves have this intense smell, like toothpaste – but today I’d probably go with something more discreet, less intense. Like wild brier. Or nightshade. When you dry them the right way, the smell is just barely detectable. I love that.”

“You’re not really taking notes, are you?” Stiles says to Scott in a whisper but Scott just shakes his head like _‘Not now!’_ , typing away on his phone.

“Wild brier,” Lydia snorts. “Oh, Alli. Well, I guess it’s cute and fits you, but I’d want something more costly and rare. More classy, you know.”

“So – a mating bracelet is a braided ribbon – and you’re supposed to make it yourself?” Stiles chimes in.

“It’s braided a certain way – ‘woven’ would probably be more accurate,” Allison explains, “It’s a long process – you have to prepare the herbs in a way that makes them durable but keeps them fragrant.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Allison gives him a dimpled smile.

“Well, you’re supposed to think of your beloved future mate while you make it. Here – I’ll show you. I think I have a photo of my mom on here – you can see the one my dad gave her last spring.”

“Mh? What do you mean, last spring?”

“You make a new one every year,” Scott mutters. From what Stiles can see he is feverishly browsing photos of identical looking plants.

“Yeah, but the _first_ one is special,” Allison says. “Shoot, I can’t find the photo.”

“Or you could just show Stiles a real-life example, Alli,” Lydia says. She is raising her eyebrows at something or someone behind Stiles.

“Where would I get a mating bracelet, Lyds?” Allison mutters, slowly, her eyes glued to her phone. “There’s just teenagers here, I don’t think anyone at school is-”

“You could take the one right in front of your eyes, Alli.”

“Mh?” Allison’s head snaps up. She turns, following Lydia’s gaze – and gasps.

“No – _way_.”

“Mh… excuse me?” someone is saying now and, finally, Stiles turns around, too.

He meets the gaze of a handsome, blond beta. On the palm of his extended hand is a slender beaded bracelet that emanates a pleasant fruity smell. Stiles is staring down at it open-mouthed, then flicks his eyes up to the boy’s large deep-blue eyes.

“Er – hi. I’m Matt,” he says. “Matt Daehler? I’m a senior. Okay, this is really – stupid, probably, since you don’t even know me, but I saw that photo in the paper this morning and figured – I’m running out of time here.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for Stiles to say something, but all Stiles can do is blink.

What the…

Lydia, Scott and Allison seem genuinely shocked. No one around them is talking anymore. Everyone is staring at Matt, and at what he’s holding in his hand.

“It’s a mating bracelet,” he’s saying now. He sounds a lot calmer than seems appropriate considering the fact that, based on everyone’s reaction, he’s doing something outrageous.

“My mom gave it to me. It’s the first one my dad made for her – that’s why the lemongrass is a little dry and doesn’t smell anymore.” He huffs out a laugh. “She said it would bring me luck. So… here it goes.”

Oh, God.

Stiles feels like his brain is slowly catching on and all he can think is, no.

No, no, no, no.

This can’t be happening.

But it is because the guy called Matt is taking a deep breath now.

“Stiles Stilinski – I choose you to be my mate.”

A long and profound silence ensues.

Stiles can hear the lunchlady’s heartbeat. No rustle of clothes or shuffle of feet. No one is talking, no one is moving.

And they all heard what this boy, Matt Daehler, said.

“I chose you – not just because you’re the Spark. I also think you’re really sweet – and funny. Well – you don’t know me, I’m aware of that, but we can get to know each other.”

Stiles opens his mouth.

For the first time in his life, he wishes he was capable of telepathy because he _needs_ to hear what Scott is thinking – he needs advice on how he’s to behave.

This is obviously something incredibly intimate – and absolutely crazy.

What is he supposed to do?

Does this guy, Matt, expect him to answer right away?

Like – now?

He knows his face is flushed and his heart is almost beating out of his chest and he’s paralyzed, absolutely frozen.

Who is this guy anyway, to walk up to him like that and make this announcement in front of the whole cafeteria?

A smile flits across Matt Daehler’s face.

“You don’t have to answer me right now. Take your time. You can ask me anything you want to know about me – I’ll answer every question. I just – want you to have this,” and he extends his hand for Stiles to take the bracelet.

Stiles immediately scoots closer to Scott and away from where Matt is standing, but before he can say anything, someone yells, “Don’t take it!”

It’s like someone turned the volume up again – and not just a notch, but all the way. Chairs are screeching across the tiles and people are jumping up and talking, shouting. It sounds like every single person in the cafeteria has been startled awake.

“Fuck you, Matt,” a tall bulky beta is saying now. Stiles recognizes him as Ethan, one of the twins on the lacrosse team. He has risen from his seat a few tables over and is glowing his greenish yellow eyes at Matt. “You’re a sneaky son-of-a-bitch, but you can’t win him by blindsiding him like that.”

Matt turns to him, a smile on his face that makes Stiles shudder. It’s haughty, but not like Lydia, arrogant, but not quite like Jackson. It’s smoother, more self-confident – and, somehow, scary.

“We’re going to rip you to pieces,” Ethan growls and his twin brother jumps up beside him. Then they’re already stampeding toward Matt – which is, of course, also where Stiles is sitting with Scott, Lydia and Allison.

“Come on, we have to move,” a voice is saying and when Stiles turns his head, Vernon Boyd has appeared in the empty seat to his right. He’s looking at Stiles with his sunflower-yellow beta eyes imploringly, his purple hoodie zipped all the way up.

“Revered One, please,” he adds while Matt ducks away from the twins’ first blow and students all around them hurry to desert the area as fast as possible. “And you, too, honorable Alpha,” Boyd says to Scott.

“Ah, hell, he’s got a point,” Scott says back when a flying chair misses his head by inches. “I’m so tired of this. Come on, Stiles. Alli?”

“Oh, no way!” Allison says, hand darting out to grab her crossbow. A bowl of soup just hit her over the head. Her blouse is drenched now and there are noodles in her hair.

“No – _fucking_ – way!”

“Okay, she’s busy,” Scott says with a grin as Allison jumps onto the table, taking aim at Aidan with her crossbow.

Stiles ducks behind Scott and they’re heading toward the door. When a beta jumps up in front of them, Vernon Boyd simply hits him over the head and the beta collapses, unconscious.

Then they’re outside in the empty hallway and Stiles takes a deep breath.

“It doesn’t seem right to just – beat it,” he says with an anxious look at the closed door, “it sounds like they’re killing each other.”

“Nah,” Scott says.

“You have to leave, Revered One,” Boyd says and pulls his hood up. “If you want me to, I will reinstate the order in the cafeteria.”

“And how exactly would you do that?” Scott says, amused, while Stiles frowns and mutters, “Revered One? What the…”

“I am not the only one here at school who belongs to the Order. There are at least a dozen of us and we will protect you from all the freaks, Revered One.”

“You’re calling yourselves the Order, mh? And – what is it that you’re doing exactly?” Scott says.

“It is our mission to spread the truth.”

“And – what would that be?”

“That the young Spark Stiles Stilinski is the Chosen One – chosen to bring back order to the town of Beacon Hills and that his friend and brother, Scott McCall,” he bows his head in Scott’s direction, “is a True Alpha and as a True Alpha, He should be the one to lead us – and not Derek Hale.”

“That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think, dude?” Scott says, but Vernon Boyd shakes his head.

“We have been waiting for the Chosen One to arrive for more than three decades…”

“How old exactly are you?”

“…and now that He is here, we will not fail.”

Boyd bends his head in supplication. Then he turns around and vanishes inside the cafeteria.

“Should I worry?” Stiles says with a frown.

“Nah,” Scott says again. “Beacon Hills has always kinda attracted crazy people like that. I mean, you heard what he said. This town is full of freaks.”

“I don’t think he was including himself.”

Scott gives him a grin. “The real freaks never do.”

He pats Stiles on the back.

“Let’s go to the library. I’ve gotta make copies of Danny’s calculus homework.”

 

 

 

Man, what a day.

When Stiles parks his Jeep in front of the house a few hours later he is dead tired. He feels like he hasn’t slept in days.

They didn’t see Matt Daehler again, the senior who proposed to Stiles out of the blue – because that’s what it was, really, wasn’t it, a proposal of marriage, of becoming mates – but a group of freshman students ended up finding Stiles in the copier room in the library and they wouldn’t leave him alone. He had to glow his purple Spark eyes at them.

They fled, tails between their legs, and Stiles struggled for minutes to regain balance. Now he’s exhausted and hungry and wants to lie in his bed and pull the blanket over his head. He desperately needs to de-stress.

Then the security people in front of the Stilinski home leeched the rest of his patience. They ran a few tests on him and bugged him with a thousand questions before they finally gave him permission to pull up to the house.

The reason being that they strongly suspected him to be a shapeshifter disguising as the Spark Stiles Stilinski.

Stiles gave them the finger, but he still had to answer all their stupid questions.

He’s relieved to be able to slam the door behind him and in their face now.

These security precautions are ridiculous. As if anyone wanted to be lurking around the house, waiting for him to come home.

As if anyone would be able to slip by the people stationed all around the house – especially since, because of the naked-girl-incident, there’s now twice as many of them.

Stiles drops his bag on the floor right where he stands, and doesn’t even bother throwing his jacket on the sofa. It hits the floor next to his feet.

He peels out of his shoes, one after the other, and then slouches off to the kitchen, to get himself a soda.

His dad isn’t home yet.

Good thing, too. Stiles has been craving silence for hours.

Except – he wouldn’t mind Derek’s company right now.

His words, his laughter. His touch.

The way he smiles with just his eyes.

Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket and almost drops his soda.

14 missed calls.

All from Derek.

1:53 p.m.

2:05 p.m.

2:12, 2:23, 2:38 and so on.

No text messages, but five voicemails.

It seems like Derek was really trying to reach him which is really not like him, not like him at all.

A rush of fear washes over Stiles.

Something must have happened, something serious.

Stiles puts his soda down.

The first voicemail is empty.

The second one is Derek’s voice, saying in a clipped tone _‘Stiles? Call me back when you get this.’_

He sounds stressed, but then, he always does. Stiles exhales and tells himself to calm down.

Nothing is wrong.

He starts strolling toward his room.

Up the stairs and down the hallway.

The third one is Derek again. He says, _‘Stiles, it’s really urgent. Please call back.’_

What the… okay, _now_ Stiles is worried.

His fingers are shaking when he taps on the fourth message.

Derek says, _‘Stiles, I didn’t mean to say – everything is alright, I promise. I just wanted to – just call me, okay?’_

Still sounding abnormally agitated.

Stiles’ fingers are shaking when he puts the phone to his ear to listen to the final message.

His left hand is reaching for the door to his room.

_‘Stiles,’_ Derek’s voice says, then pauses. _‘I didn’t want to do it like this, I wanted to tell you in person – but maybe she’s already here.’_

Stiles lets the phone sink.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to hear the rest of what Derek has to say, no.

It’s that he has opened his door now and there’s a woman on his bed.

Not like the naked sparkomanic, no, nothing like that girl at all.

This woman is fully dressed and middle-aged, dark hair with silver streaks, and she’s wearing a frown on her face. She has hazel eyes just like Derek’s with which she’s piercing Stiles now.

Derek’s voice is distant, muffled in Stiles’ hand.

_‘…that my mother is coming back to Beacon Hills. She saw the photo, Stiles, and she’s probably here already, and I meant to warn you. Do not talk to her, okay? Do_ not _go home – wait for me at school and I’ll pick you up. Promise that you’re not going home alone, Stiles!’_


End file.
